


The Miles Left on Our Souls

by waterbird13



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Discussions of mental illness, Gen, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Language, Post Civil War, The Accords, Therapy, Tony Stark figuring out how to deal with this team, Waterboarding, anti-Ross, canon disability, depictions of torture, discussions of disability, discussions of trauma, not a fix it but not not a fix it, pro Accords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7159787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross won't be persuaded that Tony had nothing to do with the former Avengers break-out of the Raft, so he throws Tony into the Raft in their place. Even from inside a prison cell, Tony's still doing his best to fight for the Accords, both believing in them and knowing something far worse could come down the pipe. When the rest of his former team tries to draw him in to deal with the threat Ross presents, Tony just wants them to leave him alone, but he knows he owes the world better than that. After all, this is all about what superheroes owe the world.</p><p>Or: A post Civil-War reunion fic with a long series of escalating conversations where a bunch of jagged pieces do their level best to fit back together, and maybe change the world in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone!
> 
> This is actually my first longer MCU work, so I'm excited. But after Civil War, I couldn't keep my mouth shut, so here we go.
> 
> Big thank-yous to my lovely, fantastic betas: findingherown, sillierthanasillylaugh, and thepriceofdreamingislife, who I'm sure is just glad I finally wrote another fic she might actually want to read.
> 
> Warnings include: This piece is pro-Accords and Tony-centric. It also deals with depictions of torture on multiple occasions, including waterboarding. Imprisonment and coercion are themes. It technically deals with kidnapping. There are discussions of physical disability and how various characters are handling these issues. There are numerous discussions about mental illness and how it is or should be handled. The language at various points escalates above what would be allowed in a PG-13 movie (too many fucks) but all in all I don't think is too bad.
> 
> This fic is not a fix-it, as in it doesn't end with everything all better, but it's not an angst fest designed to make you unhappy either. In addition, I do take out my anger at certain parts of Civil War (the final letter and Peggy's abysmal funeral) in here.
> 
> I think those are the major warnings. With that, please enjoy, thank you for reading, and let me know what you think.

Tony’s spent a grand total of eight nights in jail in his entire life, none of them consecutive, and at least half of them sleeping off the alcohol in his system.

Still, he thinks bitterly, he’s been imprisoned in worse places. At least this place has temperature control. Not under his control, of course, but controlled by someone outside of nature, and no one’s thought of messing with it to get to him yet.

There’s food, too, two meals a day at breakfast and dinner. One of the guards takes his time handing Tony his dinner tray one day, commenting on how he must be starving, rich man that he is. And it’s true, Tony’s eaten some pretty lavish stuff, stuff that costs enough money to feed small families for a week, stuff out of this world good, until he’s filled to bursting when he wants to be, because there have been very few times in his life when he’s had to go hungry.

But food gets waylaid for work, because a board meeting is happening or because he’s shoulder-deep in the armor, because the world needs to be saved. He knows how to tell his stomach to shut up and wait its damn turn. It’s harder with so few distractions, but it’s possible.

He has a toilet, and someone escorts him to the showers once every other day. The guard always stays and watches him, and Tony gets bored of cracking voyeurism jokes after the first week. He gets it. Ross is stupid in a thousand ways but he doesn’t underestimate enemies. Tony Stark blew up a cave full of terrorists with a box of scraps. Who’s to say what he could do with a five minute unsupervised shower?

Take apart the plumbing and build himself a pretty decent weapon, if he wasn’t naked, completely without tools, and only in possession of slippery-wet hands, of course.

All in all, though, he’s been imprisoned worse places. They even let him work here. Sure, it’s not for SI and it’s definitely not on the Iron Man suits--and maybe that’s good, he’s finally been forced into the retirement he was on and off of for so long--but it’s something.

Basically Ross wants his cake and to eat it too. He wants to lock Tony up as a traitor to the cause but still have Tony be a primary figure for the cause--which is a given, there’s not many people left--which means Tony gets highly supervised computer and phone access every single day.

Mostly it’s to work on this thing, these Accords, and Tony’s always hated politics, however good he has to be at it. Give him a mechanical problem any day, but large-scale human problems are exhausting.

Once a week, though, Tony gets visitors. Not real visitors, it takes a lot to get cleared to come out to the Raft and then a lot of effort after that besides, but Skype visitors. It’s highly supervised, and if anyone says anything Ross doesn’t like, he won’t get a call again for weeks.

Pepper called on his second week in. It was still awkward, stilted, weird. Tony hates how they let it get like this between them, when she has literally found him in a million compromising situations and it never got awkward before this, but it’s this that they can’t handle. Tony’s honestly not sure if it’s the prison blues or the fact that he can’t let the superhero thing goes that pushes her over the edge. She never calls back.

Rhodey calls every Thursday faithfully. If Ross had his way he and Tony would be talking through their cell walls, but not even Ross can argue to the UN that Rhodey was fit for active duty when the call came in that day. So Rhodey stays free and Tony stays grateful.

Rhodey always asks about Tony and Tony steers him onto talk of the Accords, then back to Rhodey’s physio, than anything else. Vision and his antics, even if he’s kind of a tough topic between them right now, considering what happened. The robots and FRIDAY, all of whom Rhodey is babysitting for Tony. The Spider-kid, who they never mention the name of aloud, just in case Ross gets too interested, but whom Rhodey is making semi-regular checks on. For Tony.

So Tony gets to talk to Rhodey on Thursdays, his one reassurance that his life his still there, the people he loves left behind but safe. The team Steve so...mockingly...referred to in his letter.

It had to be mocking. How else does one honestly say Tony has the Avengers when he’s reduced to himself, his seriously injured oldest friend, and a guilt-ridden cyborg he helped create. 

Tony’s spent a few nights thinking about that letter, about what it must mean, about if he reacted correctly or not. He burnt it, he wanted to be done with it, but he couldn’t quite let it go, much as he hated to admit it.

The rest of the time, he works. It’s not pretty and it’s not fun, and it’s more compromising with Ross and the others than Tony would ever do in business, but this isn’t business, it’s politics, and there’s a reason Tony’s never pursued politics past tweaking some politicians before.

It’s endless phone calls with politicians and world leaders. It’s explaining over and over and over until he’s blue in the face why the Accords are a good idea. Why having checked superheroes is better than getting rid of them altogether, why they should sign. Why superheroes will keep their promises this time, even if he can’t back that one at all, given that his former team is in the wind.

Every once in awhile, Ross shows up to ask him if he regrets it. Tony never answers, not out loud, but they all know what that means.

He has many, many regrets in his life. Putting that phone on hold, refusing to respond to the call of duty like the law demands, and giving Steve and his team one final chance will not be one of them.

 

“How’re the legs?” Tony asks. He wishes the video chat would pan wide enough for him to see Rhodey in full. As it is, he can only take descriptors of the legs.

“Fine,” Rhodey says. “Getting better on the walking. I’m off the parallel bar. Still slow as anything, but getting there.”

Tony knows it’s a lie. Knows his designs are good but not perfect yet, because every design requires extensive testing and  _ time _ , a luxury Tony was denied when helping his closest friend. He knows Rhodey is still probably mostly in the wheelchair, and that there wouldn’t be anything wrong with that if Rhodey wasn’t such a mobile person, a man who wanted to fly, never mind walk.

Tony had too many plans. Interfacing the boots with the War Machine armor. Mini rockets built straight into them, should Rhodey ever want to fly instead of walk. Maybe tricking out the wheelchair, should something go wrong with the boots, or Rhodey decides he’s comfortable using both. Just making a design that works for Rhodey, does all he needs and more. That’s all Tony wants. But they’ll have to wait, maybe indefinitely.

“Any word about you getting out?”

Tony sighs and closes his eyes for a second. “It doesn’t work like that, Rhodey,” he says. 

“Pepper would…”

“Call me a perfectly nice lawyer, I’m sure, let’s see how they respond to the Accords. I broke the law. I’ve never argued that. Besides. I can work just as well from jail as I can from home. Maybe better.”

He doesn’t mean to say that, but he thinks Rhodey understands.  _ Home _ is the Tower the Avengers abandoned and left cold, or maybe the compound that’s now too empty and too sad. Tony has other properties, but the only one that was home fell to the bottom of the sea at his own fault.

“You have the right to a trial, Tony,” Rhodey says, voice long-suffering. “A lawyer could help with that.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say how Cap and crew didn’t get a trial. It doesn’t matter that Tony wanted one for them, wanted to go to bat for that before Steve got them out. Because long story short, he didn’t want them in the Raft, maybe, but he did what them to face consequences. To know breaking the law had real repercussions, to know they weren’t just getting out of this one, because they knew the law, knew the will of the people, and decided to flout it, time and time again, second chance after second chance. He left them there, not a lawyer, not a word. No help. Maybe he deserves to be locked up too then.

“How’s the company doing?” He asks abruptly.

“Quiet,” Rhodey says, like he does every time.

It’s not that Tony  _ expected _ Steve and company to call. Sure, Steve left Tony the phone, but the letter made it clear it was for Tony to reach out. For Tony to prostrate himself upon. Never Steve. Steve is just going to go on with his life. Like before.

But he always checks. Just in case.

The guard behind Tony coughs ominously, and Tony rolls his eyes. “Look, I gotta go. Sorry, I--Sorry. Next week. If you’re available,” Tony hurries to add, because while Rhodey hasn’t missed a week yet he’s going to find something better to do eventually. “Bye.”

The guard reaches over and hangs up the call before Rhodey can even respond. Tony scowls. “Was that necessary?”

The guard hits him across the back of the head. Tony starts--he’s not used to such treatment, it doesn’t happen often around here, or at least around him. The guard grins. “Was that?” He asks.

 

The cot is not exactly high comfort, but Tony’s sacked out on it. He’s been up working for Ross for twenty-one hours straight, on the phone with politicians, pushing for the Accords, for amendments Ross wants and some Tony wants thrown in there too, subtly, quietly. He called fourteen countries in eleven different time zones today, working each world leader carefully, grooming them to throw their support behind the Accords. Needless to say, it’s not physically demanding except in how it is, and he’s left drained at the end of the day.

Or night, as it may be, since time in the Raft is a little irrelevant.

So he’s managing to get a bit of sleep, but even so, the sound of the door of his block opening wakes him immediately.

It’s not a quiet door. It couldn’t be, with the amount of security put on it, some of it Stark in origin, some of it decidedly not. But also, Tony’s the only person in his block. If that door’s opening, it’s opening for him.

Tony’s just awake enough to think that Ross might have a late-night return call that he wants Tony to field right away when he realizes that that is definitely not Ross in the middle of the block.

“What’re you doing here?” Tony asks, before recoiling, cursing his own stupidity. Even if no one was monitoring the cameras, an unplanned audio pickup in the middle of his rest time while he’s supposedly alone will draw someone’s attention.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. His voice is quiet but he’s not whispering, not trying to prevent microphones from picking him up. “Surveillance is off.”

“Who figured that one out? You?” Tony scoffs. Steve can operate a Starkphone, which Tony has to admit is pretty good for someone approaching one hundred. He can turn a laptop on and off. Use the mission tech Tony used to provide. Re-wiring an entire system would be beyond him.

“No. Peter.”

Tony  _ freezes  _ cold. “You brought Peter into this?” He demands.

“He volunteered.”

“Bullshit. You didn’t even know who he was, you found that kid and dragged him into whatever mess you’ve made. You know who he is? Huh? Than you know he’s a kid. He has school and a life and family. He doesn’t deserve whatever you’re doing, because it’s going to destroy that. Put him on the run to Wakanda.”

“You knew where we were?”

Tony rolls his eyes. Always the tone of surprise. “I know everything,” he says glibly. 

“You didn’t turn us in.”

Tony could say a lot of things. He could brush it off, say they were protected by the ruler of Wakanda and while Wakanda technically respected the Accords, it would have been a lot of red tape. That sovereign power is a little messy right now, and no one’s sure if T’Challa, even after his country backed the Accords, has the right to deny UN-sanctioned teams entry to capture the fugitives or not. He could say that they had bigger issues, that he didn’t care about anything Steve did as long as he stayed quiet and out of the way. Instead, he tells the truth. “Did you think I ended up here for tax evasion? In case you missed it, Cap, I stuck my neck out to give you one last chance. You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and he sounds so  _ earnest _ , because he’s Captain America and he’s made of earnest feelings or something, the Powerpuff girl of the forties. Earnestness, spice, everything nice. 

Tony rolls his eyes. He wishes he could look away. In the old days, he’d bury himself in a pile of engineering or a holo or at least his phone. Now he has nothing. “Why’re you here, Steve?”

“Repaying the favor,” he says. “T’Challa has a place for you too, Tony. He’s willing to help.”

“Funny,” Tony grinds out. “I distinctly remember T’Challa being for the Accords.”

“He’s not for Ross.”

“Join the club. Ross isn’t running this show. Just the Avengers. Which don’t actually exist anymore, so it’s a moot point. T’Challa is for the damn Accords. Maybe he feels something, I don’t give a fuck, he’s giving you guys shelter. Fine. But I’m not taking this.”

“Tony!” Steve says, frustration obviously mounting. He’s not shouting yet. Tony wonders how long that will take. “You don’t belong in here.”

“I broke the law, Cap. I can read. I know what the rules were, and I deliberately made the choice to break them. I can fucking accept the consequences.”

“Rhodey says--”

“Rhodey?” Tony asks furiously, looking Cap dead-on for the first time in several minutes. “Rhodey? You got Rhodey into this mess?”

“He would’ve been here himself, but--”

“Yeah, large-scale break-ins are hard for guys just off parallel bars. Which brings us back to why the fuck you got Rhodey involved.”

“He cares about you, Tony, you have to know that. He doesn’t want you in here.”

“I’m not particularly thrilled by the accommodations, either. But I can handle it. I knew it was a possibility.” Tony stops looking at Steve again. Looking up gives him a crick in the neck. “Bet your friends are happy to see me here, anyways.”

Steve sucks in a sharp, wounded breath. “Tony, how could you--you know they’d never want--”

“I know no such thing,” Tony says. “I know they hate me for what I did, I know exactly how bitter Barton and that ant guy were about this. Wanda--Wanda was, well, if she could, I don’t want to think about what she’d have done to me. Your friend there...I’m sure he’s satisfied. Fitting punishment, right? How is he, anyways? Your friend?” It’s bitter, so incredibly bitter, but Tony can’t help himself.

“Bucky…went back into cryo,” Steve says heavily, and  _ that  _ Tony looks up for.

“What?” He demands. “Why the fuck would he do that? Is he dying? Waiting for modern medicine to catch up with a cure?”

“What? No,” Steve says. “He decided. It would be better for him. He doesn’t trust what’s in his brain. What HYDRA put in there. Says it’s better if he’s on ice until we have a way to know for sure.”

Tony groans. “That’s what intense therapy is for. Mental health professionals work with brainwashing victims on a regular basis, you know? Maybe your old buddy, old pal there is the first of his kind, but he’s not the first to be brainwashed by a shady organization. There’s  _ science _ on this. People who can help. Which, you know,” Tony adds snidely, unable to resist, “Was my original suggestion.”

“I can’t see why you’re bothered,” Steve says. “I’d think you of all people would want him on ice.”

Tony feels like  _ he’s  _ on ice at that statement. “Go fuck yourself, Rogers,” he says tiredly. “Look, nice B&E. I’m sure it was a great training exercise for your little not-Avengers, whatever you’re all going to start calling yourselves now. Leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Steve says stubbornly.

“And I’m not leaving with you,” Tony says. “Cell next door is empty, if you’re really keen on sticking around. I’m pretty sure Ross wouldn’t object.”

“Tony, be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” Tony asks. “Far as I can see, I’ve been the only reasonable one here.  _ I’ve _ been dealing with this while you all shoved your fingers in your ears, ran away from reality. Natasha is—god knows where Romanoff went, what she’s doing. Maybe you do know.” Tony closes his eyes. “Don’t tell me if you do. T’Challa is harboring you all, letting you do whatever you want, against the Accords he stood for. And Rhodey’s helping you orchestrate a break in. These Accords have to hold.”

“Why can’t you admit they’ve failed?” Steve asks. “Give up on them. Give up on Ross. Move on.”

“The minute I admit they failed, the minute I take these things off the life-support I am barely able to keep them on, is the minute something worse comes along, something I won’t have an ounce of control over, none of us will. You think the Accords are bad when we—well, me, now, and Rhodey a little—have a say in terms? You’re in for a rude awakening, Cap. You may hate politicking, but you’re an idiot if you can’t even understand this much. People are  _ scared _ of us. And they have every right to be. LA, New York, DC, Johannesburg, Sokovia, Lagos, just to name a few. We can kill people, Cap, we have, and the only thing stopping us was our promise that we didn’t want to, honest. And then we’d do it anyways. Tell me we don’t owe the people better.”

“We don’t owe them our ability to actually protect them.”

“You’re so arrogant, to think your agenda is purer than the entire UNs,” Tony shakes his head. “I might be the epitome of white American Capitalist Pig, but even I’m not stupid enough to think that people around the world see those Stars ‘n Stripes and feel anything other than fear, Cap. Truth, justice, and the American way doesn’t mean much to the people we’ve been killing.”

“I have no faith in the orders of men who aren’t in the field.”

Tony shakes his head. He doesn’t think Steve’s ever been convinced of anything. “Sixty-eight percent of Americans support the Accords. A growing minority actually want stronger action. The numbers are even higher in non-Western countries. Imagine that. They don’t like the unchecked Western killing machines who promise not to hurt them, really.”

“I didn’t come here to argue with you about the Accords,” Steve says heavily.

“No, you came to rescue me. Well, thanks but no thanks. Sorry you went to all that trouble.”

“I sent you that damn phone,” Steve says, staring at Tony intently. “Tony, why didn’t you just call me when things went this bad?”

There are a lot of things Tony could say—that he made a choice, and that he knew the potential consequences, that he’s exactly where he needs to be, that Steve was where he needed to be—but instead he goes with the most cutting. “I have never needed you.”

Steve flinches. “My mistake,” he says. “I thought—“

“We were friends?” Tony suggests. “I made that mistake too once. Look, Steve. Unless you want to tell me you actually don’t know how to get out without my help, piss off. I have a conference call in the morning.”

Steve touches his ear then, his annoying habit of fiddling with the earpieces manifesting. “Got it, Peter.”

Tony scowls. He hates being left out of conversations. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Steve says. “Peter’s just worrying. It’s okay. I got this handled.”

Tony snorts. “You always have things handled, Rogers,” he says. “So handle yourself right outta this prison. Leave me in peace, away from your little mess.”

“Rhodey called me,” Steve says ruthlessly. “He called me because he thought you needed me.”

“Rhodey supports the Accords. That includes supporting this.”

“Obviously not. He can’t support the Accords at the cost of his best friend.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’m not being killed. Not even tortured, not even a little bit. And if you had fucking signed the Accords, made your operations legitimate, Barnes would’ve gotten the best psychiatric help money could buy. And not, you know, re-frozen indefinitely. So let me know which of us did worse by Barnes.”

“It’s not ideal, but it’s what he wanted.”

“So is this. This is what I want, Rogers. Respect me enough to walk away.”

“I’m sorry, Tony. I can’t do that. Peter.”

Tony looks up, only to realize that Steve is talking through an earpiece. “What?”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve repeats.

Tony’s door opens.  He’s gauntlet-less, armor-free, stripped entirely of every scrap of tech. He’s no match against a super soldier.

Tony wakes up on a plane. “Where am I?” He demands.

“Halfway to Wakanda,” Steve says.

“Almost there, actually,” Sam corrects from the pilot’s seat. “We’ve only got an hour or so to go. You slept longer than we thought.”

“Great,” Tony mutters. “That’s only going to make it that much harder to undo what you’ve done.”

“That’s kind’ve the point,” Steve says. “We’re not undoing this.”

“By now they definitely know I’m gone,” Tony barrels on. “I assume Ross wanted me hours ago, and you couldn’t have kept the security doused forever.” He pauses a second. “Where’s Peter?”

“Dropped him in the US. He got home.”

Tony only feels marginally better, knowing they didn’t drag that kid on the run. “Anyways,” he says. “Ross knows I’m gone. He’ll have combed every inch of that place for the slightest clue. You’re not that good, Rogers. He’ll have found something. He’ll be after us, and he’ll be gaining.”

“Not on this bird,” Sam says. “You have any idea the specs on this thing?”

Tony takes a cursory look around, momentarily offended it’s not his. He used to make everything for the Avengers. Even after he was no longer an Avenger. But of course, things are different now. “Sure I could figure it out,” he says, and he pretends it doesn’t sound the least bit petulant. “But it doesn’t matter,” he adds. “Ross is a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot. He’ll figure out where we’re headed. Wakanda signed the Accords. They’re not a safe zone, whatever T’Challa told you. Unless he’s prepared to break the Accords and go to  _ war _ for you all… You’re going to lose Wakanda. And everything in it.”

“T’Challa is prepared to shelter us.”

“What is it with aligning myself with traitors?” Tony mutters. “Anyways. I’m not staying.”

“Of course you are,” Steve says.

Tony snorts. So assured. Not even a single doubt. “No, I’m not,” he says. “Ross is smart, he knows I’m the last person repping his cause. He won’t paint this as a breakout. A kidnapping, maybe. I’m sure I’ll take the heat for it. Add some time. Whatever. Not like I have anywhere to be. The public won’t swing too far away from me, I can salvage this. Rather turn myself in at the UN in New York though. American soil, or at least vaguely so. Outside the UN in New York, maybe. Not that Ross needs to protect the rights of American citizens who also happen to be superheroes. But it’s better than him chasing me down to Wakanda.”

“That’s a great plan,” Sam agrees. “Except you’re not going back.”

Tony grits his teeth. “Yes, I am. And if you’re really going to continue arguing, I remind you that people who hold me hostage against my will have a nasty habit of winding up pretty damn dead.”

It’s an empty threat and they all know it, but it’s quiet in the plane for a moment.

“Man, Ross is off his rocker,” Sam says. “What the hell you need to go back there for?”

“Ross is the  _ Secretary of State _ . One of the most powerful people in the country. In the world, really. And right now he’s holding all the strings on the Accords, and if we want anything, someone has to grow up and play along.”

“Never thought I’d hear you think you’re the grownup, Stark,” Clint says. Tony jumps. He didn’t even notice he was there, slumped low in the co-pilot seat. He spins around to face Tony, and his hair is mussed. He might’ve been sleeping, probably flew the first leg of the trip.

Groggy and disoriented as he is, Tony still has the perfect comeback. “Hey, Old McBarton. How’re the kids?”

Clint flinches bodily, and Tony manages to keep his smirk internal. “That’s what I thought,” he says.

Steve sighs. “Was that necessary?” He asks.

Tony shrugs. “I’m not the one who chose to ditch my family when I was supposedly retired, knowing the law and the consequences. I’m not the one blaming others for what happened to me.”

“You looking for a damn apology for what I said, because I have news for you, Stark--”

“I’m not looking for anything,” Tony says. “Except for you all to leave me out of whatever insane plan this is. I have shit to get done.”

“Ross is--”

“Ross is an ass, Ross is on a power trip, Ross relishes in the ability to put down people like us,” Tony finishes. “Yes, yes, I know. Meanwhile, a prominent senator and one of the government’s foremost spy organizations was HYDRA. The vice President was owned by AIM. I can conclusively say Ross is none of those, and it’s better the devil you know. The devil you’ve already bargained with and the devil you can control.”

“Man, if you really think you’re in control--” Sam begins.

“And you guys, are, what, exactly?” Tony asks pointedly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Shoving your fingers in your ears. Pretending this isn’t happening. Lot of good that’s doing us.”

The plane is quiet for a moment before Clint speaks up. “Beginning descent,” he says. “Strap in.”

Tony sighs and puts his seatbelt on--he wants out, not injury--and lets them land him in Wakanda.

 

Wakanda is beautiful, Tony thinks distantly. He’s never seen it before. Starks aren’t exactly welcome, more so than most other western capitalist pigs, not after Howard’s little vibranium theft back in the forties, so Tony’s never been.

He won’t be staying, either.

He’s bundled into a jeep and dragged over to a beautiful palace, built into the sides of a cliff. He’s still in his prison garb, he realizes, although he shouldn’t be surprised. Still. Steve and the others are in uniform, and T’Challa is a King. Tony beat shame out of himself too long ago to feel it now, but it feels close.

Still, Starks are made of iron and Tony’s never let anyone see him bleed. He holds his head up as he’s escorted inside. Clint walks right behind him, Sam and Steve each on one side, and they’re not touching him at all but Tony still feels dragged. Once Tony’s in front of King T’Challa, they leave.

“Your Majesty,” Tony says, inclining his head to T’Challa. “Long time, no see.”

“Stark. Welcome.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tony says. “Look, no offense, but I’m not staying.”

“I didn’t fund a break-in to the Raft just so you could turn yourself back in.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Tony demands. “Your Father died in the process of getting these Accords ratified. He didn’t want to talk to me, I get it, but from what I saw, he wanted this more than most anything. And I’m the last person to say do things just to make your old man proud, don’t do things for the dead, but from what I saw you actually liked yours. You liked what he worked for. Why are you spitting on his legacy like this?” Tony barrels on, refusing to wait for a reply. “Why am I even here? From what I got, Starks are on the Wakandan version of a no-fly list and have been since dear old Dad made off with a few kilos of the national treasure back in the forties.”

“We have opened our borders slightly,” T’Challa says. “And you know better than to steal from Wakanda, I presume.” His lip curls. “And don’t presume to know my politics.”

“My mistake,” Tony says. “Go to war with a guy for the Accords, kinda assume he’s going to support them. Obviously, there’s a lot of that mistake going around. Romanoff. Rhodey. You. Vision still with me or has he run off too?”

“Colonel Rhodes and the Vision are here,” T’Challa says. “They are waiting to see you. But it’s the King’s prerogative to speak to you first.”

“Great, let’s talk. Let’s talk about how fast I can get a plane back to the States.”

“Let’s talk about the Accords.”

“I think we’ve done that,” Tony says. “I thought you agreed with me.”

“I do, Stark. Do not forget which nation brought these Accords to the UN. Wakanda backed them more than any other.”

“Then why this? Why harboring them? I mean, why are you letting  _ criminals _ stay here in Wakanda? Why did you shelter them?”

T’Challa stares at him impassively. “I didn’t.”

Tony stares back. “Excuse me?”

“I offered Barnes shelter while he was in cryogenic sleep. It was only right. I hunted him unjustly. I could help him. That was my offer. The rest were on their own; I owed them no such debt, and, as you said, they are criminals, on the run from the Accords. I called them back.”

“Why would you do that?” Tony demands. He’s trying not to think about Steve and Sam and Clint and Wanda and Scott leaving, being sent out with nowhere to go. They made their choices, Tony knows this, even if it hurts to think of the team he wanted together thrown out into the wide, unfriendly world. 

“I do not trust Ross,” T’Challa says levelly. “There are many suspicious things about the man. He is seizing power. Even I alone cannot put a stop to him.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust him either. That doesn’t mean I can’t work with him.”

“You’ll work with the man who tried his damndest to resurrect the Super Soldier program, who wanted a military-controlled Hulk, to have control over super heroes?”

“What do you want from me?” Tony asks, hands spread. “The last Secretary of State was HYDRA. The Vice President was AIM. More than one senator was exposed in the HYDRA scandal. They were clearly short on options and went with the assole, okay, but at least I know he’s none of the above. And if I play it right, I can control him.”

“When we dreamt up the Accords, we put in place a council. That is what you signed for, Stark. Not one man whose intentions can be just as bad as any of ours. Worse, even.”

Tony shrugs. “I’m an American, we all mostly are. Wanda’s emigrated...sort of. It’s not exactly legal but she lives...lived on American soil. You’re a new player. Natasha is American and she’s worked for the Americans. They’re leaving Ross to do the dirty work. To control his people.”

“He’s the Secretary of State. I might not be an American, Stark, but I know how your government works. On what authority should he take this role?”

“On the authority that no one wants to fucking deal with us. Look, why is he Secretary? Because we were running kinda short on options. And the council doesn’t want to deal with us if they don’t have to, not if they don’t really need us. You haven’t noticed, Majesty, all our problems recently have been internal. Self-created. They have nowhere to point this weapon. Is Ross reaching? Of course. But they’re leaving him to take care of the mess and I can’t say I blame them. More importantly, I can  _ control _ him. Or at least a bit. I know what he wants.”

“He wants weapons, Stark.”

“Well I don’t do that anymore, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“We  _ are _ weapons, Stark.” T’Challa sighs. “This message might be better coming from someone else.”

“You calling Steve back in? Because, no offense, Majesty, I’m not super known for being malleable to truth, justice, and the American way there.”

“Let him in,” T’Challa calls, and the doors open. Tony turns, fully expecting to see Steve, but instead he finds…

_ Bruce _ .

Bruce smiles. It’s probably the most brittle expression Tony’s ever seen, and that includes every smile Pepper had ever given him on his worst days, right at the end. “Hey, Tony.”

Tony’s pretty sure he’s doing his best approximation of a gaping fish. “You’re back.”

Bruce spreads his arms. “I’m back. Miss me?”

“You know we did.”

Bruce snorts. “Sure thing, Tony. Look, I didn’t come to catch up.”

“No? Came to tell me how much I’ve fucked up since you were gone, huh? The Accords, the fighting, the Raft, Barnes...take your pick. Which ones are you upset with me over?”

Bruce blinks. “You always get so defensive, Tony.” He sighs. “It’s a habit. A well-formed habit. I’m sure there are reasons, I get it. But Tony, you’ve got it wrong.”

“Wakanda isn’t exactly a third-world country by any stretch of the imagination. Not your usual MO. Don’t tell me you were just walking through.”

Bruce’s lips quirk into a little smile. “Not exactly,” he admits. “I’m here because of the Accords.”

Tony throws up his hands. “Right, this little chapter meeting of  _ why Tony Stark fucked up and the Accords suck _ has come completely to session, cool. Leave me out of it. Let me go back.”

Bruce gives him a leveling look, a look Tony’s only seen in the lab, when his ideas got outlandish and his concepts of personal lab safety slipped because of his quest to create. “And what exactly were you doing there that was so important?”

“Only calling just about every favor I have in, and some I don’t,” Tony snaps. “Politicians, moguls, industry leaders. Anyone and everyone with a little influence, political or not. Trying to calm the fires so people see the benefit of the Accords. So they don’t ask for worse. Like us to disappear altogether. Or stricter measures that we can’t abide by. People want us under lock and key, chipped like dogs, every last one of us registered as a danger. People want us  _ gone _ , Bruce, and I can’t blame them. People are dead because of us. And Steve would say people die in war, and maybe that’s true, but they’re dead because of us, hundreds of people, more, and people are scared. Scared of what we can do, what we will do if there’s no one to stop us.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair. “Not to mention the money. Ross was smart enough to not freeze my accounts, even if he’s watching them with a damn microscope. Maybe it’s shaky ground, but what the Avengers  _ are _ right now is shaky ground, so yeah, I’m still shelling out money on our non-existent behalf. Charities, rebuilding efforts. Memorials and memorial funds. The Maria Stark foundation’s been on this for a while now, but we’re stepping up our game. Let people see we’re sorry. That we’re cleaning up our mess.”

Tony trails off, running out of things to say. That’s what he’s been doing. Trying to make the world a hospitable place for the Avengers--or the former Avengers, he’s not here to think or argue about the semantics--when the Avengers are running off to hide away from the world.

Some thanks he gets. Not that he ever expected anything else.

Bruce smiles at him. “Sounds like you’ve been busy,” he says.

Tony shrugs. “You know what they say. Nothing but time in prison.”

“Do they say that?” He asks. Tony shrugs again. “Look, Tony. I’m not here to criticize what you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, well, that’s refreshing,” Tony mutters.

“But  _ Ross? _ ”

Tony sighs heavily, feeling like he’s explained this a thousand times. “Yes, I know. Ross is a monster. You have a lot of reasons to feel that way. But he’s not HYDRA. He’s not AIM. He’s not taking bribes but he’s malleable. Someone’s got to get in there first, and I did. I can control him enough to get things done.”

“He’s a weapons monger who wants nothing more than to add us to his collection,” Bruce says sternly.

“What do you want from me, Bruce?” Tony asks helplessly. “I didn’t pick the Secretary of State, alright? I don’t have that kind of power. I have to work with what I’m given, sometimes, even me.”

Bruce throws a file at Tony; Tony catches it. “What the hell is this?” He asks.

“Read it,” Bruce instructs.

Tony does, flipping open the card stock folder and flipping through the pages. “Okay, wanna fill in the blank for the guy who walked in late?” He asks after a moment. 

“The Raft is Ross’ pet,” Bruce says. “Kinda weird for the Secretary of State, huh?”

“I mean, I’ve been there, and I can tell you it’s a step or eight up from Guantanamo, and that place’s got Secretary of States’ smudgey fingerprints all over it.”

“True,” Bruce acknowledges. “So tell me, Tony. If superheroes are becoming legitimate, above board, accountable, why are we building a secret prison in the middle of the Atlantic that no one knows about, with no Trials, to hide them away in? Seems to defeat transparency a bit.”

“They could’ve chucked them in Guantanamo,” Tony reiterates.

“Steve could get out of Guantanamo. I could. Barnes could too. Wanda, maybe. Thor, definitely. The Raft was designed to contain  _ us _ . In secret.”

“What’s your point, Bruce?” Tony says tiredly. “It’s America, secret prisons without trial are not exactly abnormal. We have a long and shady history of it. Why’s this one special?”

“Why build it to hide superheroes away, to punish them in quiet, when they get nothing from doing so and the public is clamoring for our blood, when a public Trial would go their way and do a lot to strengthening their cause?”

Tony runs a hand through his hair. “You clearly think Ross is up to something exceptionally shady, alright. Out with it.”

“As long as I’ve known Ross, he’s been looking for super soldiers,” Bruce says.

Tony sees where this is going. “He was looking for another Steve. Maybe he’d take Barnes. Maybe Wanda, if he could control her. The rest of us aren’t super soldiers.”

Bruce smiles self-deprecatingly. “Maybe not,” he says. “But we are weapons. And to Ross, that’s all a supersoldier is.”

“So, he’s, what, built the world’s biggest underwater armory?” Tony asks skeptically.

“Ross is  _ controlling the Accords _ right now, Tony. You’re helping him. I know you don’t mean to, I know you just want to support the Accords, but you are. By working through him you’re cementing this...this position he’s assumed, as in charge of these Accords. He’s holding the world’s superheroes that agree with the Accords. And then you all catch the rest of us, good or bad. Intentions don’t matter. If they’re a villain or if they just don’t support the Accords. Ross throws them in the Raft, and no one knows what goes on in there. Secret underwater facility, right? A little science, a little torture, a little bribery--what wouldn’t we do to be free again? And then Ross has himself an army, legitimized by the Accords and his power over them. He can send them anywhere, call it official. Between your work and the Council’s apathy, no one’s going to question him.”

“He never tried to make me…”

“You’re more useful as you are,” Bruce interrupts. “You’re willing and you believe in the Accords. You’re campaigning for him and he needs that right now more than anything.” Bruce makes a face. “I’m sure he’ll ask for more eventually. The government always wants iron soldiers, right? But for now, your politicking is worth more than even that.”

Tony hates how it sounds, like he’s been played. Like it’s Obadiah all over again. “The others?” He asks.

Bruce shrugs. “Ross only pressured them to sign. Pretty hard, but that’s as far as it got. Sign, and they’ll be free. Have a purpose again. Could serve their country.”

“I still believe in these damn Accords,” Tony spits out, unable to say anything else until this is known. That he’ll die for the Accords, for what they mean, for accountability and knowing that people don’t have to be scared of them. 

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t,” Bruce says. He hesitates. “I don’t like...I’m not a hero, Tony, and if not putting my name down meant I could step down and retire, God would I do it. The other guy doesn't retire though, I get it. He’s also the most destructive. The most likely to...I’m better off where I can’t hurt anyone.” He pauses for a second. “Still. When this is all over. When--if--we have a system in place where accountability isn’t down to  _ Ross _ \--I would probably sign. Not staying I’d stick around. Not saying I’d take calls. There’d need to be provisions for that, I’m not at their beck and call, I can’t be, not like this. But I would sign. Because I believe what you believe, Tony. We’re responsible for the people we hurt, and we have to be held responsible.”

Tony sighs, somehow his body deflating at hearing Bruce agree with him. Back when, Natasha had seemed derisive about Bruce agreeing with them on the Accords. Tony was never sure. Bruce hates the government anywhere near him, sure. Bruce hates Ross more than just about anyone. But he loves accountability. “You have one week to convince me,” he says. “One week and then I march back to the UN in New York and turn myself back in, consequences be damned.”

Even as he says it Tony knows it’s a lie. Staying is an act of acquiescence, and he wouldn't make it if he didn’t plan on seeing this through.

“That’s all we ask, Tony,” Bruce says, looking relieved.

 

Someone shows Tony to a room. Tony grew up in the lap of luxury, he knows what wealth feels like, but it feels like every inch of Wakanda is dripping it, so much it makes even him a little uncomfortable. No one else seems to react, though.

There’s a knock on his door and Tony grunts from where he’s lying on the bed, at a loss for what to do.

Rhodey peaks in. “Hey, Tony,” he says.

Tony won’t lie. He’s pissed. But he hasn’t seen Rhodey in person in months, so being pissed can wait until he finishes hugging his best friend. It’s awkward, the wheelchair between them, and even Tony isn’t short enough to make it a comfortable position. He realizes with a sudden pang that they never practiced this. At the time when Rhodey could probably have used a hug more than anything, Tony clearly didn’t give him enough. Too focused on fixing the problem, making the boots, giving Rhodey back what he’d lost fighting at Tony’s side. “How’re you doing?” Tony asks.

“Think I should be asking you that.”

“I’m in one piece, Honeybear,” Tony says. “The boots not working?”

Rhodey hesitates, which is really all the answer Tony needs. “They’re hard,” Rhodey says. “My brain doesn’t get it right, that’s what my physio said. The metal instead of muscle, the fact that it’s all dead signals down there except for this miraculous ability to make the legs move, but not what it's used to. Plus,” Rhodey adds, lighter now. “They’re hot as hell. You never worked the AC out.” He gets serious again. “You know spoon theory?”

“Sure,” Tony says. He read about it online when he read about anxiety and PTSD and panic attacks. Not that he’ll ever tell anyone that. He gets the idea, though, of disability taking a lot out of a person, of making some tasks, even normal ones--like walking in Rhodey’s case, or, hell, taking a proper bath in his own--significantly harder without a lot of preparation and energy. Rhodey’s spoons, his energy, had probably once seemed almost infinite to him, and now he has to count out every precious one.

“Sam explained it to me,” Rhodey admits. “It’s useful. I only got so many, and the boots take some right now. So I use them when I need them and the chair when I don’t.”

Tony nods, processing this. “So...AC,” he says. “Better brain connectivity, some type of interface without wiring it all the way in...I mean, unless you want that, but that seems kinda invasive. Lighter metal, maybe. Nothing major,” he concludes. “Anything else?”

“Anyway you can integrate them into a suit?” Rhodey asks, smile back.

Tony actually laughs. “I see you missed me.”

Rhodey gets serious. “We did, Tones,” he promises. “ _ I _ did. For a hell of a lot more than upgrades. You have no idea, how goddamn hard it was to let it happen like that, let you go to jail and stay behind, see you on that little screen.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life,” Tony says. “That’s what supporting the Accords meant. See you changed your mind on that one.”

Rhodey sighs. “Don’t be like that, Tony.”

“Like what?” Tony asks. “Hurt? We agreed on this, we talked about this, over and over and over again, and first chance you get, you turn your back on this.”

“Like this!” Rhodey says, shaking his head. “Every time we have a disagreement, it’s like you feel the need to get a thousand miles away from me. Let me explain.”

“What’s there to explain?” Tony asks.

“I haven’t changed my mind about the Accords,” Rhodey says. “Never will. I believe in what we set out to do, Tony. I changed my mind about Ross. Look, we always knew he was an asshole. But the bottom line is no one man should be controlling the Accords. That puts us in a worse spot than when we started, even if that one man is a good one. And Ross isn’t, Tony. He needs to be put in check. The council needs to do its damn job. Ross isn’t what we signed up for. He was supposed to be a stop-gap. The Accords need to be negotiated on, finalized, let us have our say.”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” Tony asks crossly.

“Putting out fires,” Rhodey suggests. “Needed to be done, but there’s more work, Tony. And we could really use your help.”

“They need money?” Tony demands. “I’m sure Ross had my accounts frozen. Might’ve even gone after SI. You were better off getting the money while I was still locked up. You know you can.”

“T’Challa is rolling in dough,” Rhodey says. “Even more than you, I think. We’re good on that.”

“Tech, then,” Tony decides.

Rhodey shrugs. “Probably. I mean, I won’t lie. Everyone wants Tony Stark’s personal tech. But that’s not all, Tony. We want you because you’re you. You’re good at this politicking thing. You’re charming. You know these Accords and you have since the beginning. Because you have a vision for this and we value that.”

“All of you?” Tony demands shrewdly. “You can’t tell me Cap and co. really appreciate my vision.”

“They appreciate that you have one,” Rhodey says. “You have to admit, that’s more than they have.”

Tony sighs. “Rhodey, what am I doing here? Cap is charming. You’re charming. Sam’s charming. T’Challa’s a goddamned King. You don’t need me.”

“You’re my best friend, Tony,” Rhodey says. “You told me to join Cap’s new team and I did, but nothing's the same without you. We do this together, or we don’t do it at all.”

“It doesn’t always work like that,” Tony protests.

“It will this time,” Rhodey says.

“How’d you convince Cap to go along with that, anyways?” Tony asks.

Rhodey looks at him shrewdly. “Didn’t have to convince him of anything,” Rhodey says. “He was raring to get you out from the get-go.” He claps a hand on Tony’s elbow. “I gotta go find Bruce for a few. Talk to you soon, right?”

Tony nods, and Rhodey leaves him alone. He flops down onto the far too elegant bed, even for him, and closes his eyes.

The Raft hummed, the electronics and pressure valves making a background noise that became practically unnoticeable. It’s too quiet here. It takes Tony a long time to get to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony wakes up to a phone ringing. He looks around, but he’s still the only one in the room, and the phone is resting by his bed. Hesitantly, he picks it up.

“Hello?” He asks cautiously. No name, no identifiers. Nothing that would give him away, should this call not be from friends.

Like he has any friends.

“Mr. Stark?” 

Apparently he does still have friends, because he recognizes that voice and closes his eyes for a brief second soaking it in. “Spider-kid,” he says. He wants desperately to say the boy’s name, to ask him how he’s doing and how his aunt is and if he’s safe. But he can’t guarantee the line is secure. If it isn’t, he’s probably a goner, but Peter will not come down with him.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Peter says. “Look, Mr. Stark. I don’t know what time it is there--”

“Neither do I,” Tony says dryly.

“So sorry if you were, like, sleeping or something,” Peter continues. “But Colonel Rhodes gave me this number and I just wanted to make sure you made it okay.”

Tony winces at the sheer amount of information coming across the line, and just hopes Rhodey and T’Challa were smart about this.

“I’m here, kid,” Tony says. He doesn’t mention anything else. How he doesn’t want to be, the information Bruce dumped on him. He sighs. “Now your job is to stay in school. You can be Spider-Man, kiddo, but you gotta stay under the radar. I promise, as soon as I get to modifying the Accords again, I’ll give you the ability to keep your identity secret. Somehow,” Tony says, wincing at the logistics. “In the meantime, the Accords are in effect, kid. And that means that...well I have no fucking clue what that means right now,” Tony says, frowning. “Just keep you head down, kid. And be careful. For yourself and for others.”

He can hear the kid swallow. “Always, Mr. Stark,” he says.

Tony hangs up the phone and throws it back on the nightstand, dragging a hand across his face. The Accords. The Accords.

All this time just spent making sure they don’t get worse, amendments have fallen by the wayside. They had to. No one trusts superheroes as far as they could throw them. They had to earn some measure of trust back, giving in and proving they deserve the people’s faith, before they could ask for anything for themselves.

Tony’s spent so long putting out the people’s fires he hasn’t been able to focus on the fires of his former team.

Secret identities. Fair trial, some modifications on the Raft, for the eventually where it is needed, even if not necessarily for them. The ability to sign and not fight. 

Maybe representation on the Council. An insistence on the Council, for that matter.

Ross out of the picture.

He can start there. Like that’s not enough, like that’s not a lifetime of work.

Eventually he convinces himself to get up. He’s still wearing his Raft clothes, but he refuses to go through the closet looking for alternatives, taking the blue rags and trying to keep his head high.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t know the palace and has no idea where he’s going, so he mostly stumbles around lost until he runs into T’Challa

At which point he gets the feeling that he was never lost, never alone, and that he’s been watched the whole time. Maybe by T’Challa himself, maybe by one of those bodyguards of his, maybe by one of the others. Maybe they have a roster on him. Watch the crazy traitor when he’s in the secret hideout of the new Avengers.

“We expected you at dinner, Stark,” T’Challa says.

“Sorry about that,” Tony says glibly. “I seemed to have missed orientation.”

T’Challa considers him. “My father always said that while a man’s work defines him, sometimes all he needs is to recuperate,” T’Challa allows. “I am glad you are feeling better.”

No one’s actually asked Tony how he’s feeling, he can’t help but notice.

“Sure,” he agrees. “Something you need from me?”

“We expected to start working at dinner. I thought to catch you up.”

“Fine,” Tony says. “Shoot.”

“You need a suit, Iron Man.”

Tony holds up his hands. “Oh no. No. I’m a non-combatant. A consultant, maybe,” he says, and almost doesn’t feel bitter at the word. “Maybe you didn’t hear but my suit was destroyed. Totaled. Dead hunk of metal I blew up in Siberia.”

“You can make more. You always do.” Tony tries to ignore the way T’Challa says it. Like admiration, almost.

“Not this time.”

“If it comes down to a fight…”

“Then I’m sure your merry men have it handled, Majesty. In the meantime. I  _ do _ have some groundbreaking medical technology to work on. So. A lab would be appreciated.”

“So arrogant,” T’Challa says, lip curling. Somehow, though, the admiration doesn’t seem entirely gone.

Tony stares the King down. “I didn’t pull myself from the Raft. I need a place to work. Both on the politics and the tech. Are you going to give it to me, or not?”

T’Challa doesn’t sigh, that would probably be beneath him. “Doctor Banner mentioned something of the sorts,” he allows. “We’ve begun to set it up. It should be finished by morning.”

“Rhodey wants into the field. That means I need everything to design a suit, and then some. Believe me, you rather have him than me.”

“By morning,” T’Challa repeats, as if Tony is particularly stupid. “In the meantime. Your team is looking for you.”

“What team?” Tony says petulantly once T’Challa takes off, presumably for some more Kingly duties.

T’Challa didn’t bother pointing him in a direction, so Tony continues to stumble aimlessly until Sam walks up to him. “Christ,” Tony snaps. “I have a bad heart, or did you guys miss that?”

Sam just watches him. “How you doin’?” He asks.

Tony shakes his head. “Look. From what Rhodey says, you’ve been helping him out. You're a good friend to Steve and I appreciate your loyalty and your...commitment to your cause. I know that unlike most of ‘em, you really didn’t believe in the Accords, didn’t choose this just because Cap was on that side. Good for you. You’re a great guy, Wilson, and if you’re after something, tech improvements, whatever, you’ll get it. But you’re not here for me, let’s get that straight.”

Sam just blinks at him, slowly. “I watched my best friend fall out of the sky and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to save him,” he says, and it almost sounds easy. Tony wonders how many times he’s said it, how much practice it would take to get to this point where the words flow off the tongue and it looks like it only hurts a little bit. “It’ll fuck you up, man.”

“My best friend might not have walked away but he still came away,” Tony says. “I’ll be just fine. Worry about yourself.”

“Always room for one more,” Sam says.

“You want tech or not?” Tony asks.

Sam sighs. “Redwing got damaged in Ross’ hands.”

“Of course. Consider it done. Well. As soon as the lab is finished. And my project for Rhodey. Rhodey comes first.”

“Of course. Steve was looking for you.”

“Steve can wait unless someone’s dying,” Tony says. “Far as I remember, he’s not the boss anymore. Not that he was my boss before. ‘Cause I wasn’t an Avenger. I remember that vividly.”

“Remember that was your choice,” Sam says evenly.

“Yeah, well, sometimes choices are made for you,” Tony says. “Or feels damn like they are. Anyone else around?”

“We’re all here.”

“But not everyone wants to see me,” Tony surmises. “Got it. Stay in my room or stay in my lab, be thankful for the visitors I get.”

“This isn’t another prison,” Sam says.

Tony snorts. “No, it’s for my own protection. And I can accept that. Better or worse, I’ve fallen in with your stupid story and need to keep my nose clean ‘til my week’s up. I get it.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Sam says as Tony turns to leave. “She just...gonna take a while to forget what was done to her.”

“Funny thing, here,” Tony says. “Gonna take me a while to forget seeing her like that, and I barely even knew her. Girl didn’t like me in the first place, fine, I get why. One thing I wanted to avoid, detaining the technically undocumented alien they--maybe rightly--view as at least partially a nuclear warhead without trial. But hell. She’s a grown adult. She knows how the world works. She could make her choices, and she did.” Tony swallows. “Blaming that on me is her choice, too. She hates the Accords, she hates me for what they stand for, she hates  _ me _ for what  _ I  _ stand for, fine. I’ve got thick enough skin.”

Tony’s brain is brimming, spinning. “Excuse me,” he says. “I need to get to work.”

It takes him fifteen minutes to find his bedroom again, but no one has to know that.

He picks up the tablet that’s been left for him. It’s a Starkpad, and Tony supposes it’s meant as a kindness, his own tech in his hands once more. But it’s not holo. FRIDAY isn’t inside it.

It feels cold.

Still. He opens it and begins making lists, list after list, long documents, typing away as fast as he can, spilling all his thoughts of today and everything he’s quashed in the month’s prior into words, making starts at what he needs to do.

 

Tony only knows morning arrives because of a knock at his door. “Who is it?” He calls, weary, already ready to hide the Starkpad should it not be someone he wants to speak with. 

“Bruce.”

Tony relaxes marginally. He’s not an idiot, he knows Bruce isn’t his biggest fan right now. Bruce must  _ hate _ him, Tony thinks, for working even in proximity to Ross. Bruce must hate him for the very basics of the Accords, for everything Ross put into them. But Bruce believes in accountability. He believes in a real future. More than that, as a scientist, he believes in reality, and knows that he can’t just ignore what is inevitably happening. Tony’s willing to give him a chance.

“Come in.”

Bruce enters. “We missed you at breakfast.”

“Not hungry.” It’s a lie, Tony can’t remember the last time he ate. Perhaps the late meal at the Raft, a few hours before Steve grabbed him.

“You need to eat.”

“I need to work. I’m here to work.”

“You lab wasn’t even finished,” Bruce protests.

Tony nudges the Starkpad. “Fifteen pages on Accord notes and modifications and, in some areas, massive re-writes. Everything I always wanted but knew it would take time. I put in my time, Bruce.”

Bruce sighs. “T’Challa sent me. Your lab is ready. And if you eat, I’ll even show you where it is.”

Tony weighs his options. “I could find it on my own.”

“I’m sure eating a sandwich and following me would be faster than stumbling around in the dark.”

Tony acquiesces, and Bruce manages to smile at him. 

 

Tony works his heart out on the gear. The boots for Rhodey take the most time, prototype after prototype, testing together for hours, Tony keeping pain killers handy for the really bad trials, beating himself up when the boots hurt instead of help.

Rhodey never likes him doing that. He keeps sticking around, trying to draw Tony out. It’s not exceptionally successful.

For breaks in the grueling project that is the absolute pinnacle of modern paraplegic mobility devices, Tony works on gear for the rest of the team.

He starts with Redwing, then gives Sam’s wings a general efficiency overhaul and updates his flight read outs. Paranoid, he puts in safety measures should a loss of power ever occur. Before, theoretically, Sam could use the wings as mini-gliders and reach the ground this way, assuming it was just a loss of power and the wings remained undamaged. Now, he can get a few minutes emergency power to bring him to a safe landing. If the wings are damaged, there’s always the chute, of course, not Tony’s favorite method considering how tight the thing has to be packed in there, but it’s a possibility. Sam will be safe, Tony thinks. Or as safe as he can make him.

When he hands the gear over, he manages to request that Sam ask the rest of his team if they’d like anything.

Wanda doesn’t need anything from him, but then, she never did. Scott Lang, the ant guy, refuses to let a Stark touch his tech--Sam tries to put it nicer, but Tony gets the point, gets the knife in the chest that he apparently just can’t be trusted. Clint refuses too, but Sam tells Tony privately that he’s low on arrows, so Tony designs them, just like he used to. Sam can deal with getting the stubborn bastard to take them.

T’Challa seems amused by his offer and Tony accepts that. T’Challa and the Wakandan people have been outfitting Black Panther for longer than Tony’s been alive. They are one of the richest countries in the world, and an incredibly scientifically advanced one. Tony can probably keep up with them, but it seems to be a too many cooks in the kitchen problem.

Still, Tony drops off his Accord edits with the King, sending more pages as he keeps going. T’Challa never responds, but then, the man is a king. He’s busy.

Sam comes to him awkwardly one day, shifting from foot to foot, nervous as Tony’s ever seen him. “Out with it,” Tony says. “You break your wings already?”

“It’s Steve’s shield,” he blurts. “He says you have it.”

“Yeah,” Tony says slowly. “I did. But unless Rhodey grabbed it when he apparently fled the US, then Cap is shit outta luck. It ain’t here.”

“Wakanda is rich in Vibranium,” Sam says.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Even I know it’s not ours.”

“T’Challa would let us have some.”

“I very much doubt that,” Tony asks. “But if you think so, talk to him. He works with Vibranium all the time, him and his people. Leave me out of it.”

Sam seems frustrated. “Why would you steal it?” He demands.

“That thing is Stark property from the day it was made,” Tony says. “If it wasn’t made from unpaid stolen goods, I’d say it was mine. Howard stole it from Wakanda and gave it to Steve, who decided he no longer listened to the people and nearly decapitated me with it. He wants a new one, talk to T’Challa. Or go steal it from the Compound. I don’t care. But I won’t make him one.”

“You tried to steal his best friend and when he wouldn’t let you have that, you stole his shield. The only other thing he has from his past.”

“Maybe,” Tony allows. “I don’t give a fuck about your psychoanalysis, though, Wilson. I have prosthesis to develop here.”

Sam leaves when Tony focuses on the boots again, clearly not coming back to the discussion.

Whatever. Tony gave them another option. It’s not like he left Cap high and dry without any way to defend himself. Man is a super soldier. He should have thought this out himself earlier.

He’s close to done with the boots. He knows it. They’ll never be a permanent solution, at least not at this juncture. They can’t fix the damage the fall did to Rhodey’s spine and legs. But Tony can provide a comfortable, usable bridge so Rhodey can use his legs when it best serves him to do so.

Right now, the major issue is integrating them with the suit, because he knows his best friend, and he knows Rhodey isn’t retiring. Combat’s in Rhodey’s blood, maybe. Or he just can’t stand to see others go without him.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

Tony drops his screwdriver when he tenses up so fast. “Romanoff,” he breathes.

She doesn’t even acknowledge him, which Tony thinks is pretty cold, considering who exactly left who the last time they met. “You asked for proof,” she says, tossing a file onto his bench. “Well, look all you want.”

The file is dozens of pages thick, glossy high-resolution photos shoved between pages. Tony flips through quickly, then again, and again, and again.

“Super soldiers,” he breathes. 

“Yup,” Natasha says. “Estimates are eight of them of varying abilities. Some more like Barnes, some more like Wanda. All of them in US uniforms and sanctioned by Ross. All of them evidently under orders to hunt terrorists, without much care about civilian casualties along the way.”

“Where did you get this?” Tony asks.

“Going to tell me it’s a fake?” She asks.

Tony frowns. “I want to know about your information,” he snaps. “In case you forgot, I didn't make myself your enemy on this one. You chose to walk away. You chose the other side.”

“You chose war over your team.”

“I chose  _ protecting the people of the world _ over my team, yeah. Fuck your righteousness,” Tony says tiredly. Of all the betrayals, hers had hit hard. Maybe it shouldn’t have. Maybe he should have expected it. But it hurt. He thought they had something. Agreed on something.

“Fuck my--where the fuck have you been, Stark, when we dealt with Ross? Dancing to his tune?”

“Maybe you missed the part where I was in prison,” Tony says. “For letting your friends go. Maybe you missed me dealing with the Accords while you all fucked off into hiding. Shoving your fingers in your ears. You found something out, good for you. As the person who has  _ actually been getting shit done _ , I want to know if your information holds any value.”

Natasha is as tense as one of Clint’s bow strings. “It’s good,” she says. “I’m the photographer. Where do you think I’ve been?”

Tony pushes the folder back towards her, having seen enough. “Great. Go pass your message along, Widow. Unless I’m the last one you came to.”

She smiles, all sharp and mean. “You were,” she promises. “T’Challa wants you.”

 

They’re all in what Tony might classify as a boardroom if it weren’t so elegantly decorated. Tony’s relatively sure the ceiling is inlaid with actual gold and Vibranium.

The table is what catches his attention, though. It’s big, wooden, stately, and, more importantly, surrounded by the entire crew. T’Challa at the head. Steve on one side. Sam next to him, then Scott, Wanda, Clint. Rhodey, Bruce, and Vision sit on the other side.

Natasha slides into the other available seat next to T’Challa, leaving Tony to find his place at the other end, and all eyes land on him. He swallows.

“Stark,” T’Challa says, inclining his head. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Nice of you to invite me,” he says, trying to recline a bit in his seat. It’s a picture he’s used to projecting, the disinterested businessman. It doesn’t work anymore, Tony finds.

“You’ve seen our proof that Ross is an evil man. What’s your response?”

“You should have gone to the UN,” Tony says. “You should have gone to the Council, you should have brought your concerns up there and made them oust Ross, rather than dragging me into being a fugitive. You of all people, your Majesty, should know this. You _ made _ that Council. More than I did.”

Clint snorts. “The Council is a useless piece of shit.”

“He means the Council is ineffective,” T’Challa corrects. “Non-acting. The Accords were weak, Stark. Exploitable. By men like Ross. He holds the reigns and the Council lets him, letting him do and take the damage.”

“I  _ mean _ ,” Clint says hotly, “that the whole Accords are useless.”

As if the room wasn’t tense enough before. It’s like everything just gets ten times worse.

Tony sighs, knowing that, as always recently, this is on him to deal with. “Alright, Barton, you clearly have something to say,” he says. “Out with it.”

“Your Accords, Stark, have torn us apart. Put us in jail, lost me my family. You getting the picture?”

“I’m getting you don’t understand consequences,” Tony says evenly. “You knew the law. You didn’t have to like it, but guess what? It was the fuckin’ law. You don’t like it, try to change it. Don’t blatantly ignore it and act surprised when that turns you into a criminal.”

“We were sent to the Raft!” Clint roars. 

Tony nods. “Prison, Barton. Prison that could hold us. The no Trials, no lawyers thing, that’s wrong. That’s up to the Council to fix. And maybe some of this is on me. Once I figured out what Steve fucking meant, about Zemo, I was so intent on  _ fixing _ things...I could see it all. We’d fix it. Barnes would be safe, Cap happy, and you’d all come around. Realize we aren’t so different. I could protect Barnes. All of you. And you’d be out of jail, the Accords would be signed and fully ratified, I could get to working on them like I wanted. But I...I should have called Pepper. The Council. T’Challa. Anyone. Get you guys some lawyers. Get Ross for human rights violations.”

“He’d say we are not humans,” Wanda suddenly speaks up. “And your Accords would let him.”

“Those Accords don’t say we can be abused like that,” Tony snaps. “I know you’ve never liked me. I know I built the bomb that killed your parents, took away your childhood. I understand you hating me for that. But I  _ didn’t fire it, okay? _ I didn’t even sell it, and you’ve been inside my head, had your fun in there, you know that. So really, how much of a monster do you think I am?”

She looks at him coolly. “The fact remains,” she says. “That I was locked up in a prison cell, in a strait jacket and a shock collar. Like a dog. And you did nothing.”

“ _ Nothing _ ?” Tony demands. “Nothing but my absolute best to keep you from there. Excuse me for thinking some time in a luxury facility with friends is better than prison, Ms. Maximoff. You’re an undocumented alien with ties to a Nazi organization and powers you can barely control some days. You killed more than a dozen people, however accidentally. House arrest is not uncommon until a Tribunal can occur and the subject absolved of blame, you know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t sit down and discuss it with you personally. Maybe I should have. I thought--you never liked me, and for good reason, but I thought Vision keeping you company would help, that he could explain--clearly I was wrong. And I’m sorry for that. But it wasn’t optional, Wanda, not until people were less terrified of you. Not until they weren't going to throw your ass into a cell or Guantanamo or, hell, the Raft. You chose to leave. You chose to fight. I didn’t make you do that.”

“What about my family, Stark?” Clint asks. “Notice you’re awfully quiet about them.”

“Yeah, what about them, Barton? Sorry, I’ve been in prison. Kinda hard to keep track of them. But that’s not my job. Something you maybe should have considered before coming out of retirement for...what, exactly?”

“Because the Accords were wrong!”

Tony practically throws his tablet across the table, he slides it so hard. “Feel free to peruse the bookmarks,” he says. “I’ve catalogued a hundred and eighteen websites, chat groups, message boards, whatever about the Accords. And those are just the English ones. All of them populated by ordinary people. All of whom want the Accords-- _ or worse _ \--because they are  _ scared _ of us. The Accords are the will of the people. One hundred seventeen countries. Countless civilians, scared out of their minds at what we can do, unchecked, unwatched. And if you’re really willing to ignore their wants, their needs, their fears because you’re so convinced you can never do wrong, we’d never be like that, we’re good to our cores and we’d never hurt people, we only have their best interests in mind, you’re not only dangerously naive, arrogant, and patronizing, but you’re a despot. A tyrant. A villain.”

It’s a trick Tony learned long ago, keep throwing words at someone, escalating them, see what lands. The last one definitely lands, and the table gets very, very quiet. No one reaches for the tablet, but Tony sees them eyeing it.

“Enough,” T’Challa says, as if someone was talking. “Talk of the Accords aside. For now,” he says, and his voice is low and full of menace and promise in equal measure. “We are here to discuss Ross.”

“What’s the difference?” Scott asks petulantly.

T’Challa fields this one. “Ross was never part of the Accords,” he says, and Tony would perhaps classify his voice as seething. “My father did not draft a document and bring it to one hundred seventeen wide, varied countries just to hand over power to some _ American _ Secretary of State, and him alone. Him in power alone is just as bad, if not worse, than heroes holding their own power.”

“Plus, you know, Ross is a raging nut job,” Tony says as cheerfully as he can manage.

“Which you knew all along,” Steve says, speaking for the first time. His eyes are boring into Tony. “You knew! How couldn’t you, after what Bruce went through? And you trusted him anyways.”

Tony sneers at Steve. “I got work done,” he says. “I put myself in a position to make this a controlled fall, rather than spinning wildly out of control. Of course, the best laid plans…” He shakes his head. “It takes more than one. Fighting you all was a bit distracting from actually getting work done. But excuse me for trying to give us a landing zone, for trying to make this something we had a say in, something palatable, rather than the mess ignoring it turned it into. Not all of us can afford to shove our heads in the sand, Rogers.”

Steve turns to Bruce, who squirms uncomfortably but actually manages to speak. “I hate that Ross was a part of this,” he says. “I hate that Tony’s actions gave him any modicum of power. But I also hate what we’ve become. People are always afraid of me. And I do my best to rectify it. I hide. I meditate. I manage my anger. I control it, and I rarely break,” he says, lip turning wryly, thinking of the grand scale of his breaks, no doubt. “And when I do, I hate myself for the fear I see in others. You cannot possibly imagine, Captain, how much I absolutely loathe a group of so-called heroes who hear and see that fear, and then turn around and tell people that their fear is wrong, not allowed, and don’t do a single damn thing to ease that fear. They just make it worse.”

The room gets quiet again, until T’Challa once more takes charge. “Enough,” he says quietly. “Ross.”

Tony nods. “Ross,” he says.

“What do you know about the Raft, Stark?” T’Challa asks.

“I know the layout from my cell to the showers and computer rooms. I could hazard a guess at some of the security features, but I could also guess you all got there first. That’s all.”

“You never saw a hint of this?”

“If I did, I would have told you.”

“Would you have?” Sam asks. He doesn’t sound as sharp as the others, as determined to blame Tony. Just questioning, like he’s genuinely not sure.

“Of course,” Tony bristles regardless. “You might not have noticed, but I don’t actually like Ross. And I like human rights violations even less.”

“You’re right, we didn’t notice,” Clint says, but he says it quietly, and no one comments.

Natasha sighs. “That makes it harder,” she says. “Would be nice to have a witness statement.”

“Ross is using superheroes to kill civilians under the Accords. What more do we need?” Scott asks.

“Boat loads,” Rhodey says. “For a guy who's been on the wrong side of the law, you know awful little about it.”

T’Challa nods. “He’s right,” he says. “This alone will not be enough to condemn Ross. But it will be enough to perhaps revive the council. Start an investigation.”

“No way!” Clint shouts.

Everyone turns to him. “What is it you want, Mr. Barton?” Vision asks slowly.

“We give this to the President or whoever, Ross gets thrown in an American jail. The Accords biggest leader gets thrown in prison and the Accords get scrapped.”

T’Challa actually stands. “I think, Agent Barton, you are forgetting your place,” he warns. “Ross did not write these Accords.”

Tony stands too. “You’re forgetting something else, Barton.”

Clint sneers, but doesn’t speak. It’s Steve who does. “Like what, Tony?”

“Like T’Challa, and Rhodey, and me. We’re still behind these Accords. We will not stop fighting for them.”

“Even a King can’t bring back something that failed like that,” Clint dismisses.

“No, but one hundred seventeen countries can,” Tony says. “The will of the people can. And the people will it, Barton. They want nothing more than to see us controlled.”

Tony pushes back from the table. “Let me know when you’re ready to go to the UN,” he says directly to T’Challa, then moves away, back to his workshop.

 

Natasha finds him down there three hours and elbow-deep in Rhodey’s War Machine armor later.

“I owe you an apology,” she says.

Tony blinks, staring at her. “Can I have it in writing?” He manages to ask.

She scowls. “Don’t push it, Stark,” she warns. Then she draws herself close again, upright and proud. “I do though. I...I said this was for your pride.”

“Well, you know me,” Tony says, bringing a smile to his face. “Self-obsessed narcissist.”

“Stop that. We both know...that’s not true.”

“Do we?” Tony asks. It’s rhetorical, but Natasha flinches nonetheless.

“You were dying when I wrote that,” she says softly. “You were planning and still doing so many things, but you were dying, and I assumed...I don’t think I ever grew out of my assumptions. Don’t get me wrong. You’re an ass. You’re arrogant and you can be self-obsessed at times. You work too hard and don’t care about anything else when you do. You--”

“Was this meant to be an opportunity to corner me and tell me how awful I am? Because I’m about done listening,” Tony warns.

“You’re also caring and generous. You built us everything we own, everything we call our own, everywhere we lived. You looked after us. You looked after the world, your employees, the places we broke. You want to save the world, you really mean that.” She studies him so intensively Tony has to look away. “I’ve never met someone so jaded yet so naive at the same time.”

“Goody,” Tony says dryly. “I feel special. Anything else?”

“I’m a Russian assassin,” she says quietly. “I tend not to weep over fallen regimes. Systems can be broken, because they will just be replaced. But family...I never had one of those before.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony says awkwardly. “Me either?”

“I didn’t support the Accords for the system,” she says. “Maybe I should. I don’t  _ want _ people to see me as a monster, not anymore. But that was all secondary. I thought...I thought they’d forgive us, if we just worked hard enough. I guess I never fully understood the scope of this, how far down we were. But I never wanted to. I supported the Accords because I thought they’d keep our family together. They’d keep us safe, and working together, and  _ not like this _ . I failed. I failed you and your belief in me, in fixing the system. I failed the whole team, because playing both sides didn’t get me my family back. I failed myself.”

She looks away before seeming to come back. “You didn’t do this for your pride. Maybe a little. But this was about...belief. That the system could be made whole. That we owed people better than what we gave. And I told you to give that up.”

He shrugs. “You’re never entirely wrong about anything, Romanoff. You’re too good at your job. I did do this for my ego. For my conscious. Because I am wracked in guilt, thousands of lives on my hands, and I have more than any of you, weapons going back to when I was ten fucking years old, but some of those bodies are on all of us.” Tony shudders. “I am swimming in guilt. Charles Spencer’s mother thinks I couldn’t give a damn and I see his face when I sleep at night. Never even met the kid. So yeah. This is about me. About how I’m swimming in guilt and they’re asking me to do something about it, to change, to not do anything to feel guilty about anymore. And isn’t that...isn’t that what guilt’s for? The brain’s way of telling you, congrats, asshole, you fucked up, remember this forever and never, ever do it again?” He closes his eyes for a second. “This was about me. But it was about listening to it. Doing what the people wanted with it. I swear, hurting the team...that was never what I wanted.” He sighs. “But I guess that damn guilt wasn’t loud enough.”

She touches his arm. Softly, quickly, and then it’s over, like it never happened. “I do believe you,” she promises. Then she stands. “We have our second chance,” she says. “To fix our family and to fix...everything else. The world, maybe. Well?”

“Well what?” He asks stupidly after a moment.

She’s watching him impatiently. “You’re the fixer, Tony. How are we going to fix this?”

Tony stares at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, but then his brain catches up, and it starts spinning plans.

 

“You wish to do what?” T’Challa asks.

“Wake Barnes,” Tony says stubbornly, looking the King right in the eyes. Overall, T’Challa’s eyes are disbelieving but not hostile. So if Tony’s watching them, he doesn’t have to look at Steve, who is most decidedly hostile.

“Why can’t you just leave Bucky alone?” Steve demands, arms crossed and eyes flashing. Tony stares harder at T’Challa, intent on ignoring the murderous blonde beside him.

“ _ Bucky _ is not my concern,” Tony says cooly. “Except for this. We need a united front against Ross. That means all of us. The whole gang. Even the Popsicle members. And I’ll tell you this. If you’re waiting for the magic pill that’ll fix Barnes, than you’ll be waiting until the world ends, Rogers. There’s no magic. No easy cure. It’s not something you can find. You can’t read some words one day or force him to swallow some pill and get your old pal, your buddy back, unharmed, just like he was in the forties. That’s not how trauma works.”

T’Challa seems...almost pleased with him, Tony thinks. “And what do you suggest?” He asks.

“Therapy?” Tony says. “What most severe trauma victims go through?”

“Bucky’s been brainwashed seventy years, tortured, you can’t just call someone for that.”

“I can and I will,” Tony shoots back. “The best of the best. Tell them I’m giving them the case of their career.” He turns back to T’Challa. “I have an invention. It’s called BARF--nevermind that, stupid acronym, been too busy to change it. The point is, it can help you see and analyze your own past memories. Cost millions, completely impractical. But it works. Least Barnes could be prepared. With therapy, it could help.”

“You expect that to be enough?”

“It’s all any of us get,” Tony says. “Look, Rogers, what do you want from me? I’m telling you, short of...of lobotomizing him, or something, your friend will wait in cryo forever for a cure. This is what I wanted for him all along. Well, he can have it. I’ll make sure he has it.”

T’Challa nods. “I will contact this therapist you suggest,” he says. “If you give me a name.”

“Have it in an hour,” Tony promises.

Steve seems to lose control over himself then. He reaches out and physically grabs Tony. The grip is tight but not so tight to cause physical damage, although Tony suspects he might wind up with some bruises. Really, it’s been awhile since he’s been black and blue, sheltered by prison as he’s been.

T’Challa stands at full attention. “Watch yourself, Captain.”

Tony’s frozen, but he manages to hold up one hand, hoping T’Challa will listen and hold. “What do you want, Steve?”

“What do  _ you _ want, Tony?” Steve demands. “You try to kill him, and now I’m supposed to believe you have his best interests at heart? I won’t let you hurt him!”

Tony forcefully stops himself from wrenching away from the super soldier. It won’t do any good. “Look, if I haven’t made it clear yet. I regret how I reacted. I don’t  _ want _ to blame Barnes. Hard to watch the guy kill my Mom and have no time to prepare, to process that, then have him standing right there, alive, you fighting so damn hard for him…” Tony shakes his head. “That’s on me. How I reacted is on me, what I did is on me. That shouldn’t be something Barnes has to deal with. You need him.  _ You _ need him, I get it, believe it or not I’m not an idiot. But the entire team needs him. Barnes will be an Accords nightmare, but I will protect him. Whatever I have to do.”

T’Challa nods. “As will I. Now, Captain Rogers--Let Mr. Stark go.”

Steve releases him and Tony takes a half step back, trying to subtly rotate his arm. Bruised, definitely. Not broken though. “I’ll get him an arm,” Tony says. “One that works well enough he’ll be of use to the team. I’ll get him a therapist, or I’ll help T’Challa, at any rate. I’ll set BARF up for him, see if that helps. And after that...I’m bowing out. For my sake, more than anyone else's.”

Steve looks at him long, and hard, and Tony bristles at being judged worthy by Captain America now of all times, but he lets it happen. Finally, Steve nods.

“I hope I can trust you on this one, Tony,” he says.

Tony can’t resist. “No offense, but I’m not the one who’s displayed a lack of trustworthiness recently,” he says. 

Steve flinches, but doesn’t retaliate.

Tony turns away. “Go back to...wherever you go,” he says. “Staring at Barnes’ cryo-pod longingly, for all I know. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to wake him.”

Tony feels T’Challa’s eyes on him as Steve walks away. “We need to talk, Stark,” he says.

Tony feels the tension piling on. He hasn’t even had to call a world leader in over a week and he’s still tense like this. He needs a vacation. The very thought makes him want to laugh, but that would come across even worse than everything else.

“Okay,” Tony says. “I get a drink first?”

T’Challa gestures expansively. “Help yourself.”

Tony’s been dry for months now, the forced sobriety of prison, but he pours the scotch and throws it back regardless. It burns. “What can I do for you, your Majesty?”

“I need you to talk me through your reasoning. Slowly. I know what vengeance does to a man. You might well be setting yours aside, but I need to know.”

“Fair enough,” Tony says, not looking the man quite in the eyes. “It is your castle, after all.”

T’Challa smiles a bit. “My country, too, Stark.”

“Roman--Natasha and I were talking,” Tony says. “About the Accords. About where we went wrong. Not in the Accords but just in--us. Between us.” He takes a deep breath. “She talked about family. About wanting the Accords to protect her family. This team, it’s her family. It’s  _ all _ their family. And I thought--we’re not going to do this, we’re not going to get the Accords in place,  _ maybe _ even get the Avengers back in action, unless the whole gang is there. Even if Barnes isn’t one of them yet. Cap loves him, he’ll fit right in.” Tony stops to breath again. “This is how it has to go. It’s that whole junky, never leave a man behind thing. We have to treat Barnes like the Accords should have all along.”

“And how do  _ you _ feel about Barnes, Stark?”

“The rational part of me knows his brain was mush, he had no control over it. I get that. The rest of me...you watched your Father die. Held him after, right? Imagine thinking he died...not peacefully, but at least quickly, for twenty years. That he’d never known what was coming, that it didn’t hurt. That he wasn’t  _ scared _ . And then watching it, twenty years later. And then finding out that he died terrified, strangled to death slow and painful, by the man standing next to you. My Mom died like that, Your Majesty. How’d you feel?”

“You know how that makes a person feel, Stark. My sympathies.”

“Right,” Tony says, making a face. “Look, I can’t help it. It...it burns me up, to know my Mom died afraid and he walks away. But I know that feeling’s wrong. I know. And I can’t stop it but I can do my best.”

“So, you look to do right by Barnes,” T’Challa says, seeming pleased.

“Well, it’s not refuge in a state supposedly law-bound to turn them in, but…” Tony shrugs.

“You’re a good man, Stark,” T’Challa says. “You more than the others know, it is hard to do what we do. Lead. Make the tough decisions. I thought Rogers would understand…”

“Things have an annoying habit of turning out okay for that guy,” Tony mutters.

“Indeed. And we think him so old, but he’s not, is he?”

“You’re not that old either, Majesty,” Tony smirks.

“No. But I am a King now. And I am experiencing what my Father always spoke of. What I imagine you live with, managing your company, this team, and now this.” He smiles. “You are doing well. If no one has told you yet, know that.”

“Thanks,” Tony says, trying his best not to sound choked up. “And...you should maybe call me Tony, Majesty. Mr. Stark sounds so formal for someone I’m planning on working with.”

“Tony,” T’Challa says, smiling more. “We have much work to do together. I’ve read your edits, your notes. I cannot wait to bring them to the Council.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair. “One step at a time.”

T’Challa grows serious again. “Yes. And the first step must be to wake Mr. Barnes. Which means I need that therapist’s name and he needs an arm.”

“Want to build an arm with me, Majesty?” Tony asks. When T’Challa gives him a look Tony is pretty sure is surprise, Tony shrugs. “Don’t act like that. I read. Science journals, mostly. Which means I know you. You’re brilliant.”

“And a little too busy being politician to be a scientist anymore,” T’Challa says ruefully. “But if I can, Stark. I would enjoy that.”

“We’ll be waiting for you,” Tony promises. “Rhodey might step in. Robotics smaller than engines aren’t his specialty, but he’s always good to have around. Bruce maybe, even if mechanics are mostly just something he likes to watch. Too many cooks, maybe, but I figure...this is a project I’m better off not doing alone.”

T’Challa smiles understandingly, cutting off his rant. “Go, Tony. There’s work to be done.”

Tony half-salutes. “On it,” he promises, before backing out of the room.

His body is still thrumming with tension--he’s not sure what he would do if it stopped, at this point--but he feels better than he did earlier.

T’Challa’s support seems  _ real _ . Sincere, like it’s going to keep coming. He has Rhodey behind him, T’Challa, maybe even Natasha and Bruce. For the first time in months, this seems manageable through more than his sheer need to get it done. It seems possible, like together, they might be able to fix the world.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony’s tinkering with Rhodey’s boots, brow furrowed and screwdriver between his teeth. He’s keeping it there not because it’s convenient, but because this way, he can’t talk. He’s tried calling for FRIDAY and the bots four different times so far today. DUM-E isn’t going to come hold the boot. 

“Knock, knock,” Rhodey says, wheeling himself inside.

“Honey bear!” Tony says, dropping the screw driver and summoning as much enthusiasm as he can. Not that he’s ever not enthusiastic to see Rhodey.

“You called?”

“Your fitting awaits.”

It’s a process to get the boots on Rhodey, and Tony makes a mental note.  _ Easier access _ . Something Rhodey could slip on in five minutes in the morning if he chose to.

Still. That’s generations down the line. Tony will get there.

“Okay, think you’re buckled in. Stand up?”

Rhodey makes a twisted face. “Do you actually have to think that hard to get them to respond?” Tony asks worriedly, because if so, that’s a major design flaw. They should work as fluidly as Rhodey’s pre-injury legs, or close to it.

“Nah,” Rhodey says. “Don’t think so. It’s like old people shouting into the phone.”

“Right,” Tony says. “Ease up, will you? I want to actually put them through their paces.”

“Easier said than done, you know.”

Tony stands up and walks away. “I have donuts,” he offers.

Rhodey snorts. “Tones, I’m not a dog, you can’t lure me over with food.”

“Good thing, too,” Tony says, still walking backwards. “I don’t actually have donuts. I haven’t been out of the palace in a week and a half. And I don’t think Wakandans actually eat donuts? Note to self: check out donut situation in Wakanda--ouch!”

Rhodey’s on his feet in a second. “What’s wrong?”

Tony grins. “Nothing, nothing.”

Rhodey walks closer, determined to figure out what’s wrong with Tony. “Seriously, Tony, don’t you dare--oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” Tony says. “I think they work. C’mon. Let’s go for a little walk. Take ‘em through their paces.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I still fall for that,” he grouses.

“Because you love me,” Tony says cheekily. It’s true though. Rhodey cares. Rhodey’s always cared, for over thirty years now. Tony’s not sure what to do with that kind of loyalty except hope and keep hoping that Rhodey doesn’t leave.

Tony throws open the lab door and gestures Rhodey to lead him out. “All feedback,” he instructs. “Any feedback. Everything. I need to know it all. Anything you’re thinking about, nothing is too small.”

“The AC is better,” Rhodey grunts.

“They too heavy?” Tony asks worriedly.

“No, I...I just haven’t walked more than ten steps at a time in months, man,” Rhodey says. “Body’s remembering.”

“We’ll go slow,” Tony promises. “After all. This is only test phase one.”

Rhodey rounds on him. “What?”

Tony can’t stifle the grin. “I did it,” he says. “Or at least, I think I did. Suppose we can’t know for sure until you try it. But--”

“Tony.”

“Right. The suit. I integrated it. Successfully, I think. War Machine is prepared for an extra piece of hardware now.”

Rhodey actually full-on _ whoops _ , pure joy echoing down the hallway, and Tony can’t help but smiling wider. “You’re gonna fly again, buddy,” he says.

Rhodey hugs him. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Don’t thank me,” Tony says. “Especially not yet. You might’ve missed it, but you just volunteered to become a hard-core test subject for SI’s latest medical prosthesis. And that sucks. So consider this your due.”

“The legs are pretty good,” Rhodey says.

“Yeah? Anything wrong?”

“Don’t think so. I’m--it’s faster.”

“Better be,” Tony says.

They turn a corner and stumble on what looks like an expensive lounge. Tony thinks it’s empty, until Vision stands from one of the big chairs facing the window. “I’ll get out of your way,” he says.

“You don’t have to do that,” Tony says, words out of his mouth before he can think about it, before he can draw on the memories of how uncomfortable things were at the compound before Tony got arrested. Vision didn’t talk, and Tony focused on Rhodey. On building legs for Rhodey, he corrects himself, because there’s a difference.

Vision’s always made Tony a bit uncomfortable, the product of Tony’s biggest mistake, and he might be a good result but he gobbled up one of Tony’s best friends in the process. Even if JARVIS willingly gave his life for this, it still hurts to hear him, to sometimes almost feel him, in the android.

And just when Tony started coping with that, when his infrequent visits to the compound made the reality a bit more palatable, just when he realized he and Vision could work together just fine, Vision took a shot and got distracted.

Vision took a shot and hit Rhodey. And as much as Tony tries not to blame him for that, as much as he mostly blames himself--even if Rhodey doesn’t like that either--Tony can’t help but feel it. Vision slipped. Rhodey will never walk again, not without a whole host of technology and effort.

And even if Rhodey hadn’t gotten hit...That shot was meant for Sam. Meant to stop Sam from pursuing them, and maybe Vision could have managed it. Turned Sam’s wings into gliders, like Rhodey asked. They were designed for that, after all. But he was distracted. And he took a nearly lethal shot anyways.

Vision didn’t talk much, back at the compound. He’d chosen to stay with them, and Tony thinks he genuinely believes in the Accords, which is nice, but he’d been quiet. Withdrawn. The Android isn’t dumb. He can sense what’s going on around him.

“Stay,” Tony repeats, aware of his choice now. Because if they’re uniting the team, than this ends here. Vision has to know he’s a part of it. And Tony has to know who still supports the Accords.

“Very well,” he says. “Colonel, how are the braces?”

“Best ones yet,” Rhodey says. He walks all the way around to the couch, unaided, and Tony gives him a long, critical look. He’s walking almost naturally. Like he’s adjusting. He’s getting this.

Tony thinks he might’ve gotten it right, for once.

“How’re you doing, Vision?” Rhodey asks, and Tony’s glad Rhodey broke the ice.

“Fine,” Vision says shortly. He pauses. “I must confess that this is all...overwhelming.”

“How so?” Tony asks.

“I am not particularly old,” Vision says. “If I were human you would call me a toddler. And yet the world has changed so much…” He looks so lost for a moment. “I believe in the Accords. And yet, these people are the only people I know. My world is small. I fear I will lose them all.” He smiles wryly. “Even the ones I have sided with.”

“You haven’t lost us, Viz,” Tony says.

“Haven’t I? You’re afraid of me now,” Vision says miserably, looking down at the ground.

“I’m not afraid,” Rhodey says strongly. “I was never afraid, Vision. Not of you. Of what this would mean for me, sure. But not of you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Colonel Rhodes,” he says. “But I--”

“I told you to take a shot, and you did,” Rhodey says forcefully. “There are risks involved in every fight. I knew them. I’m a pilot. Been a pilot over twenty years. There are risks every time you go up. Add weapons, the risks increase. I’ve accepted that.”

“I failed you,” Vision says. “You asked me to help you and instead I hurt you grievously.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey says. “I probably shouldn’t have asked you to take that shot. You maybe shouldn’t have taken it, knowing you weren’t focused. What-ifs will kill you, man.”

“That one’s true,” Tony adds. “You just have to...keep going.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “Right,” he says. “You’re great at that, man.”

Vision gives a half smile. “We could...keep going, together?”

“I’m keeping going through work,” Tony tells him honestly. “And this is a long fight we’re in for. Right now we’re all united against Ross, but maybe against friends again, eventually, although hopefully with no guns this time. You up for that?” He takes a moment. This is not a recruitment reel. “You don’t have to be. I’m not going to...to un-forgive you because you don’t fight with me.”

“I believe in the Accords,” Vision repeats. “History has taught us this lesson, I believe. I will be there, for whatever I can do. Now, excuse me,” he says, rising.

“Done with us already, buddy?” Rhodey asks.

“I figure I will let you get back to your test,” Vision says. “And I’d like to find Wanda.”

Tony stiffens. “How is she?”

“Confused,” Vision says. “What she did, by accident, it hurt her. Affected her. I thought she’d sign. But she feels a great deal of loyalty to the Captain. He was brotherly, I think, filling the gap where Pietro used to be. And he called, and she went, and she did not like being locked up.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “No one does. Actions have consequences, though. Even well-intentioned ones.”

“She doesn’t wish people to be scared of her,” Vision continues. “But I think she feels she cannot change that.”

Tony nods. “Right,” he says, and he feels tired all over again. “And you...you’re helping her, right?”

“I try.”

“Keep trying, Viz,” Tony says. 

Vision nods, and he seems to deem the conversation over.

Tony gathers himself then turns to Rhodey. “Ready for the trip back?” He asks. “Gonna warn you. You’re doing part of it backwards. Then if that works, at a jog.”

Rhodey groans, but he’s smiling, and the legs hold, so Tony thinks they’re doing okay.

 

Tony’s working on the arm. They’re nine hours in, and they have a frame. T’Challa was a godsend, because Steve trusted him near Bucky, so he could get scans of the port still in Bucky’s arm. Bruce helped there a little, analyzing the soft, squishy medical bits Tony rather not think of if he doesn’t have to. He’s dug around inside his own chest port. If someone else wants to touch Bucky’s arm port, then more power to them.

They’re a team, bickering back and forth over designs and streamlining affects. At hour four, it got rather tiring to say “Your Majesty” every time they wanted to raise a point against T’Challa. He seemed to realize that too, and quietly told them to call him T’Challa, before obliterating Tony’s latest hastily-sketched design.

Tony really likes working with the guy. It’s a pity he has a country to run and a warrior legend to embody. That type of thing takes too much time away from science.

They create a design for the most basic frame, and by that time it has been nine long hours, so everyone else slowly begs off for dinner and bed. T’Challa leaves last.

“You should rest,” he says.

“When I’m dead.”

“That will be too soon if you go on like this,” T’Challa says sternly. He sighs. “Rest, Tony. Soon.”

“Mhm.”

“Would a distraction help?”

“Possibly. What is it?”

T’Challa slides a pile of papers in front of Tony. Concentration broken, Tony looks up. “What’re these?”

T’Challa actually smiles. “ _ My _ notes on the Accords. I hope that you will read them.”

“Why?” Tony asks. “No offense, but you actually have a voice in the UN. I just so the dirty work for the cause. You don’t have to go through me.”

“No, but I trust you,” T’Challa says. “You are a man who knows what he’s talking about, and I trust your input. Plus, I envision us working together a long time to come. Let us start now.”

Tony leafs through the papers, then smiles. “I’ll read these, then sleep,” he promises. “I can work on the arm in the morning.”

“Good man,” T’Challa says, then leaves.

Tony sets the arm designs aside and flips through T’Challa’s notes. Most are echoes of his own points, some are things he hasn’t even thought of, details so minute yet so strikingly important once dragged to the light of day.

Ross didn't even write the Accords, but Tony feels his grubby hands all over them. This feels purer. Like he can breathe with it.

Not yet, of course. It’s not official yet. But it’s getting there.

There are steps, Tony reminds himself. The arm. Wake up Barnes. Get him on his feet, see what additional information Natasha gathers. Then go to the UN. And Ross gets the boot, the Council gets a damn grip, and they change the world.

Tony’s been changing the world since he was  _ four _ . Sometimes have felt good, amazing even. Some have felt awful, nauseatingly awful. This one feels more necessary, more vital, like it’s in his lifeblood and he was born to do this.

Tony Stark. Not born to create weapons, or robots, or artificial intelligences. Not built to revolutionize clean energy or medical technology or communications. Built to change world political relations. Who would have thought?

“What’re you reading there?”

Tony jumps, doing his level best not to shove T’Challa’s careful notes away, because that’s just a dead giveaway and he doesn’t need anything to happen to them.

“Notes,” Tony says succinctly. It’s true, after all.

Steve snorts. “Alright, Tony. You busy?”

“Am I ever not?” Tony asks. He sighs. Steve’s been trying to talk ever since the Raft, and Tony knows it, much as he’s been trying to ignore it. So far, Steve has been good enough about letting him have his space. It doesn’t seem that way anymore.

Tony supposes it’s better to get it over with. “What can I do for you?”

“Just wanted to chat.”

Tony sighs. “Steve. We don’t chat. I don’t think we ever did, but we are so far beyond that now. What can I do for you?”

Tony finally gives Steve a proper look, a long, leveling one, and Steve’s hunching his shoulders. Almost making himself look smaller, not that a man like that can ever look small. He’s hunched over and shrunken though, and it makes Tony watch.

“You never called me,” Steve blurts after a minute or so.

Tony turns away, losing interest, because if Steve can’t figure it out… “No. I didn’t,” he says simply.

“I sent you the phone.”

“I’m aware.”

“Why?”

“I could not begin to guess why you sent me that travesty of a phone,” Tony says.

“Why didn’t you  _ call _ ?” Steve clarifies.

Tony sighs and carefully sets T’Challa’s notes aside. “You said to call if I needed you,” Tony says.

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t need you.” Tony knows it’s harsh, knows his words are cutting and worthy of himself on his absolute worst days, but that doesn’t make them less true.

“You went to prison! They locked you up without a trial!”

“Because I helped  _ you, _ ” Tony snaps. “I gave you and your friends half a chance to escape, and they took that out on me. It’s the law, Steve. That might not mean much to you, but I get it.” He takes a deep breath. “Besides. The only thing that’s important right now is these Accords. That’s it. Since I knew you would be absolutely zero help with that, I can’t see a single reason why I’d want to call you.”

Steve stands there in stunned silence for a moment. “Just like that,” he says. “Just like that, I disagree with you on the Accords, and just like that our friendship is over?”

It cuts a little, because Rhodey and Pepper and Bruce and a handful of former therapists have mentioned this, this tendency to see disapproval as total rejection, and to shove people away as a result. To protect himself that way. Rhodey mentioned it just last week.

But then Tony thinks of trying to talk at the compound, at the UN facility, digging through his Dad’s old stuff so he’d have some half-assed olive branch to offer, of getting his team out to Leipzig so they can talk and Steve won’t get his over-inflated head shot off, and he thinks, he wasn't the one who ended those conversations. He wasn’t the one who decided they were done.

“So now we’re friends?” Tony asks cuttingly. “Look, Rogers, I don’t know what you want. You didn’t disagree with me on the Accords. You decimated the will of a hundred seventeen nations, the sovereign power of every country on Earth, the right to living without fear of every citizen on the planet. That’s not a disagreement. That’s an act of aggression.”

Steve looks even smaller. “I didn’t mean that...that was never the purpose.”

“No,” Tony says. “No, the purpose was  _ you _ so arrogantly thought that your hands were the only safe ones. That you knew better than everyone else. That you could convince the world you were the safe option, that they’re not allowed to fear you, that they must react how you want them to.” He snorts. “You know, Aunt Peggy always said you hated bullies. But she liked her stories, I guess.”

Steve seems to be reeling. “Aunt Peggy?”

“You think I went my whole life without meeting Peggy Carter?” Tony asks. “She and Howard...God, she hated him, but she loved him, and she came around when she could, and she told me stories and sheltered me when I needed it. Not that anyone would ever tell you, because people like to pretend she died when you did, or something, but. She had a happy life. She loved her husband and her kids. Her nieces and nephews and her grandkids. She changed the world, you know. She was always proud of who she was in the War, but she was more than that, too.” Tony huffs. “Think people are afraid you’ll meltdown if they talk to you about the in-between years. Well, fuck that. She had a happy, long life and she deserves to be remembered for more than you.”

Now Steve looks confused. “I don’t...disagree with you?” He says, and Tony wonders if he’s questioning that fact in an of itself or where this conversation went off his original track.

Tony debates letting go, telling Steve how absolutely appalled he was at seeing his Aunt’s funeral. Steve’s place of honor, the ancient World War Two picture of Peggy, as if she stopped in time in the forties, Sharon Carter’s ridiculous address. Tony’s been angry since the day she was put into the ground, and he hasn’t said a word. Even he knows better than to argue at a funeral, and he’s been busy since.

“Her funeral was all about you,” Tony snaps. “You were her pallbearer. She had kids. Grandkids. Siblings, nieces, nephews. She loved you once, maybe loved you always, but she knew you twenty minutes practically.”

“You’re angry about not getting to be a pallbearer yourself?” Steve hazards.

“It’s not about me,” Tony snaps. “And it shouldn’t be about you. That goddamn picture, from the goddamn forties, like any of us remember that Peggy. We should’ve gotten her as we knew her. Not as you knew her. We deserved to say goodbye,” Tony says. “Peggy deserves to be remembered for her.” He laughs coldly. “But hey. At least Sharon gave you some really stellar advice, huh? At least we got that out of it.”

Steve looks hapless. “I don’t know what to do about this,” he says. “I...didn’t make these choices.” He looks so...broken, and it makes Tony snap back to himself a little.

“I know,” he says. “But God, people just hand this shit to you, like you’re entitled to it. You still think you’re the little guy, Rogers, but you have to accept you’re not. Maybe you feel like it, but no one sees you that way, and you have to react accordingly. They treat you like the big guy. Like you’re entitled to Aunt Peggy’s life and great moments, like you’re entitled to her memory. She meant something without you.”

“A hell of a lot,” Steve agrees. He manages a wobbly smile. “At least we can agree on something?”

Tony wants a drink. “Sure, Rogers,” he says. 

“I didn’t know you were there,” Steve says.

“I sat in the back,” Tony says. “People notice me when I show up to things. Flew off right after. Work to be done. Aunt Peggy would understand that.” He pauses a second. “Maybe I cater to you too. Did cater. That felt like your chance to say goodbye. I made my peace. I don’t believe in that shit, anyways.”

“Yes you do,” Steve says.

The knowing tone irritates Tony. It’s true, the last few minutes are definite proof that Tony believes in funeral and memory and legacy, even if he doesn’t necessarily believe in the religious, esoteric content of them. But right now, Steve pretending that he knows Tony, that’s more galling than anything else.

“Rogers, I don’t think you’re in much of a position to tell me anything about me,” Tony says. “You’ve tried that again and again. Look how well your last attempt turned out.”

Steve, to his credit, doesn’t play dumb. “You didn’t like the letter, huh?”

“You are so absolutely full of shit, Rogers,” Tony says. “Been on your own since you were eighteen, huh? Never fit in anywhere? Wow, that must suck. Except...I distinctly remember you smashing my suit to bits over Barnes. The friend who’s always been there for you? Almost like a brother, huh? And you told me, you  _ told _ me when I asked you if you wanted out, the Avengers and that life was your home. That you belonged. I worried about you, but you said you were happy. Happy enough,” Tony amends. “But you’re incapable of telling me the truth, huh? The Avengers are my family. Please…”

“Tony, they are…”

“Then where were they?” Tony demands. “Where were they? In case you didn’t notice, I was left with my best friend, a man I’ve known decades before the Avengers were even a twinkle in Fury’s eye. And an android based off my own artificial intelligence. Some family group of Avengers, there. We know who they followed.”

“I didn’t realize that would hurt you,” Steve says.

“No, you never do, do you?” Tony snaps. “Tony Stark doesn’t have feelings, does he? Why, I’m practically a robot myself. Not worth worrying about how he feels.”

Steve sighs heavily. “We’re back to this.”

“Yeah. Shocking, isn’t it?” Tony asks, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard himself more bitter. “For what it’s worth, I do understand. It’s okay, Steve. I understand you’re a coward who didn’t consider me worthy of knowing the truth. Not worth the effort to tell me. So you know what? Maybe I thought we were friends. But we weren’t. A friend would have told me, no matter how tough it would be. They would have let me deal with that.” Tony swallows. “But not you. So don’t come at me with the  _ friends _ thing anymore.”

Steve reaches out a hand, seems to think better of it, and drops it. “I wanted to protect you.”

“Well, maybe this is a fucking lesson for you, then,” Tony says sharply. “You don’t protect people by making decisions for them, Rogers. People are more than capable of making their own.” 

“And now we’re back to the Accords.”

“You act like these are all separate subjects,” Tony snaps. “Rogers, your inability to even  _ see _ the power you hold and how you use it--on purpose or not--and how that affects others. That’s what this is all about. All of us. We’re powerful. We can change the world, for good or bad. And we can hurt people. And people want us to check that power. To have safeguards in place. Sometimes, they want us to back the fuck out, or at least tell them what’s going on. And when it concerns them, they have that right.”

Tony turns completely away from Steve. His hackles raise at having his back to a person he still considers a threat, to some degree or another. But if Steve wants to hurt him, Tony facing him or not won’t change a thing. Tony’s defenseless against a super human. 

Tony sighs. If he’s going to die here, then he’s going to die here. It’s not like it’s a change from the last decade of his life.

“I know you don’t think of yourself that way,” he says. “You don’t think _ I know better than every country on Earth, and they can stop their whining and listen to me, because I know best _ . You don’t really think like that, like some jingoistic nonsense. You didn’t trust the Accords.”

“Safest hands are our own,” Steve echoes. “Tony, I’m sorry, but I won’t turn over control to someone else. What if--”

“Then we put safeguards in place,” Tony interrupts. “No, really. Whatever you were going to say. We put safeguards in place. T’Challa and I are amending the fuck out of these things. I’m sure others will jump on that bandwagon. We’ll agree on the changes we need together, and then get them pushed through. Compromise. But you have to work with the system. You can’t just break it in half and expect the world to forgive you that. We scared them. We owe them our cooperation.”

“When Ross orders you to gun down civilians in order to get to potential terrorists?” Steve demands.

“Have you seen our causality reports?” Tony asks, but then takes a deep breath, because he knows that one isn’t fair, that Steve might write those casualties off as a result of war but he’s not heartless to them, not in the slightest. “Ross shouldn’t even be a part of this fucking picture, it should be a Council. They left the American nuisances in the American’s hands, but that has to change. It will change. And refusing an order is a lot better than blatantly disobeying. I have the right to not serve,” Tony says. “And I’m making sure that gets cemented.” Tony cracks an eye in Steve’s direction. “I told you from the start. Anything wrong with the Accords could be fixed.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe in the Council.”

“You don’t believe in me,” Tony corrects.

Steve flinches. “I--that’s not…”

“You never have,” Tony concludes. “Some days I wonder, you know, if things would have been different if Natasha introduced the Accords first. Or Sharon. I don’t think so. I think your problem is way bigger than just me, even my ego isn’t that big. Steve, you’re not a bully. Aunt Peggy told stories when she could, she lied when she had to; she didn’t make up stories about you to a little boy, though. That I believe.” He gathers his thoughts. Tony makes great speeches under spontaneous pressure, but somehow, this one feels like it has a lot more riding on it than normal. “You’re not the type of guy to tell the little guy to shut up and stop complaining, and be happy for what you do choose to give him. This isn’t you, and seventy years can change a guy, but are you telling me this is how you wanted to change?”

“What are you saying, Tony?” Steve asks, stiff as a board.

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Tony suggests. “I’ve tried it. Didn’t stick, and look at me, still a mess. Not in the best place to try it right now, but never say never. Maybe you should try it, because this isn’t you. This is a guy too scared to admit he’s imperfect, too scared to give any amount of power to others. Too scared to do his job and protect the little guy. And that is so far from the you I thought I knew,” Tony says. He shrugs. “Something to think about.”

Steve pushes towards the door suddenly. “Nice talk, Tony,” he says. “Let me know when you’re ready to wake Bucky.”

Tony let's out a breath, practically collapsing onto his workbench. “Of course,” he mutters. He shouldn’t even try. 

He spends half the night working through T’Challa’s notes, adding pages more of his own, and when the text grows blurry in front of his eyes, he drinks yet another cup of coffee and switches back to the arm.

 

It takes the group three weeks to finish the arm up to their standards, and two days after it’s finished, T’Challa escorts the psychologist Tony chose from the airport. “I wanted her to be careful coming in,” T’Challa says levelly. “This is not an operation we can afford to mess up. Right now, we have time.”

Dr. Gina Webbs has a CV so nice it practically makes Tony salivate. Most of her work has been with cults and their victims, but she’s also worked with prisoners of war. She’s tough as nails and walks in with her head held high, her braids and her dress not a millimeter out of place, her eyes bright, despite the fact that T’Challa briefed her on her impossible task on the ride over.

“Nothing is impossible,” she says when Tony makes a comment. “Certainly not this. I understand you have a technological angle we might be incorporating?”

“We should just be glad T’Challa is filthy rich,” Tony mutters, pulling out the newly re-completed BARF. He managed to shave off some money, almost two million, given the sheer quality of tools at his disposal in Wakanda and practice at making this device, but it’s still an expensive piece of plastic that Barnes might not find much use for. Still, he talks Dr. Webbs through it.

“Not right away,” she says. “Give me time with him first. You don’t throw someone right into horrors.”

All that’s left at that point, really, is to wake up Barnes.

There’s a long discussion about who should be there. Steve, obviously, and T’Challa. Webbs is a crucial player. Natasha comes back the night before and doesn’t let anyone keep her out. Bruce chooses to stay far away, and Tony can’t say he blames him.

There’s no telling how this could go. Tony’s not even armed, and Barnes has a lot of reasons to hate him, and he’s going to be disoriented and possibly reminded of some pretty bad stuff. And yet Tony also insists on being present, even if only in the back, out of the way.

He can’t even say why, but T’Challa and Natasha don't protest. Steve looks like he’d rather swallow nails, but he seems willing to allow it as long as Tony stays back.

As predicted, Bucky wakes disoriented, confused, and it takes Steve to talk him back around. Reluctantly, he gives space to Dr. Webbs, and at that point, Tony sidles over to Natasha, one eye still on the proceedings, one on the redhead.

“Any news?”

“There’s always news,” Natasha says. “Nothing as obvious as last time though. Far as I can tell, they’re marching with the rest of the army.”

“Ross isn’t even a general anymore, how’s he pulling this off?” Tony mutters.

“The man has a lot of friends.”

“Men like that don’t have friends,” Tony corrects. “They have...allies. They’re promised something by Ross. They’re getting something.”

“Something besides super soldiers?”

“Besides untested prisoners capable of killing thrust into the middle of presumably well-working units?” Tony asks ironically. “Yeah. Think so. Look, if Ross just wanted them to be his personal attack dogs, he’d have them lie low somewhere when he wasn’t using them.”

“I’ll look into it.” Natasha bites her lip. “There are reports of one town, burnt to ash by a man impervious to the fire. The town’s definitely burnt, but can’t tell if it’s a story survivors tell, or if it’s true. But if it is…”

“Town a target?” Tony asks.

“Supposedly, there was family there of a man on the ISIS Shura Council,” she says. “He wasn’t there. Just the family, if it is true.”

Tony gets a sinking feeling in his gut. “Keep digging,” he says. “We’re getting somewhere.”

Natasha looks back to the scene in front of them. “You really think Barnes will be okay?” She asks.

Tony shrugs. “He’s an extreme case but not a completely unique one,” he says. “Science deals with brain trauma every day. Even brain trauma like this. Dr. Webbs is the best of the best. Steve has to learn he’s not getting the guy from forty-three back, and Barnes has to accept that, but yeah. I think he’ll make it. With time and effort.” He swallows. “This is always what I wanted for him.”

“Until you tried to kill him.”

“A mistake,” Tony says tightly. “A bad reaction.”

Natasha looks at him. “I should have told you,” she says. “I was there too, I knew. But you and I, we never got quite in sync. Always on the wrong foot. Steve...I thought he’d tell you. I know you two had your issues but I didn’t think he’d do this. And when we found out, you two were fine, there was no reason…”

“Yeah, well,” Tony says. “Things went a certain way.”

“I should have told you,” she says. “I knew you had issues with your Dad, thought, maybe, wow, he handled that well. It’s over. Guess it doesn’t effect him that much anymore. Stupid.” She looks at him side-on. “Need to get a better read on you.”

“Have all the time in the world,” Tony says flippantly. He’s watching Steve clasp Bucky’s shoulder, standing supportively behind him while Bucky starts to talk to Dr. Webbs.

“When are you giving him the arm?” She asks.

“Thought Dr. Webbs can sort that out.”

She nods, then, because she is the Black Widow and will always remain true to form of practically having no form, she blindsides him with, “Heard you told Steve to see a therapist.”

“How the  _ hell _ did you hear that?” Tony demands. “You weren’t even here then!”

“He vented to Sam and Sam vented to me. Sam agrees with you, for what it’s worth. Said guy came back from the war and never did the work of coming back.”

Tony shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t think Steve would want me to know this.”

Natasha gazes piercingly at him. “You’ve already proven you do know, Tony. And besides. Maybe you’ll help.”

“It’s not my business,” Tony says. “If he needs me to fly someone over, money for it...well, it’ll have to wait, because I can’t access my accounts. But later. I’ll do that. Always will. But he has to choose it.”

Natasha exhales irritably, then nods. “Fair enough,” she says. “You gonna take your own advice?”

“Last time I tried that it worked out poorly,” Tony says, thinking back on finding it inside himself to trust Bruce, the first person he found it in himself to open up to since the Chitauri invasion, and then getting ignored for an hour and a half. How a friend reacting like that had felt, even if part of him knows he went about it wrong, maybe. Probably.

“Choose better,” she says. “Not everyone is meant for that. I’m not.”

Tony grins, thinking of her spinning her web, getting information from people.

“We should go,” she says, looking back over at the scene. It’s like she’s never taken her eyes off of it.

Tony looks back too, and Bucky’s crying. Tony nods, and they vacate. They don’t go far, just in case something goes wrong, but at the end of the day, everyone deserves some privacy.

 

Dr. Webbs asks for the arm eight days into working with Bucky. Bruce does most of the work of getting it on, and T’Challa helps. Tony stays well clear, insisting that soft, squishy things aren’t his area.

Two and a half weeks later, she asks for BARF.

“Part of me wants to wait,” she admits to Tony. “Years, maybe. But I’ve told him about this. It’s his decision. And he’s...well, excited isn’t the right word for how Bucky reacts to anything right now. But he is enthused to utilize it. To know once and for all what exactly is planted in his brain.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Yeah, I can...I can see that. It’s set up. T’Challa was kind enough to give us a room. I installed a window the other day. Not the best setup for BARF, but I have a feeling we don’t want to be in this room with him. So, window. He puts on the electromagnetic neurowave glasses, and presto. We’ll see what comes of it.”

So, Tony finalizes the set up and hands over the glasses. He talks Dr. Webb through them in detail and does his best to bow out.

“Sure Barnes doesn’t need me to see this,” Tony says. “And as long as you know how to use the tech, can’t see why I’d be needed.”

“What if it goes wrong?” She presses, face grim. “We need you around. For tech support.”

So Tony, Steve, and Dr. Webbs end up watching Bucky fiddling uncomfortably with the neuro glasses through the window. “Put them on if you’re ready,” Tony says.

Bucky holds them a second longer, then shoves them on fast, like an unpleasant situation having to be endured. Tony frowns. “He doesn’t look happy about this.”

“He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want this,” Dr. Webbs assures him. “He chose this. He has some hard things to get through, though.”

The room changes. Tony didn’t build a frame this time; he didn’t know Bucky’s memories, and he doubts Bucky did fully either. He certainly wasn’t going to ask. So nothing can be touched. The room will embody the memory though, to the best of its capabilities. Bucky can talk to them. Maybe even get some sort of tactile memory feedback, even if it won’t feel entirely real. He can certainly see it all. Tony set the sensors up properly so they could have that much.

It should be enough.

“What if this triggers him?” Steve asks mutinously, and Tony didn't know Steve didn’t want to be here until now, although he supposes he should have suspected. It’s Tony’s technology near Bucky, after all. “What if this sends him back to the Winter Soldier?”

“He’s been brought back before,” Dr. Webbs says calmly. “We can do it again. Don’t presume to know what Bucky and I have and haven’t discussed, Captain Rogers. He knows it’s a possibility. But it will give us a lot of information. A starting point. Anyways, I don’t think it will. The words won’t be spoken to him, not directly, anyways. That type of thing matters. What he will see may very will trigger him. Just not like you’re thinking.”

Bucky’s opening up his memories then, letting them unfold. His memory self is flat on a table, with only one arm, strapped in with metal cuffs as thick as Tony’s bicep. He struggles, and seems to get an electric shock, his whole body arching in the restraints while he screams.

The real Bucky swallows, stepping back until he hits a wall.

“опять.”  _ Again _ . Tony’s Russian is barely proficient at best, this is going to be difficult. FRIDAY would usually help him, if he had the ability to bring FRIDAY here without arousing any suspicion from Ross, who is undoubtedly watching everything remotely associated with Tony.

The words start then, a nonsense string, Russian carefully pronounced. Bucky’s eyes go wide but he doesn’t seem to change. Tony’s watched the footage from the Consulate, he thinks he can recognize the Winter Soldier coming out.

“хороший.”

“Good,” Dr. Webbs translates heavily. She pauses for a second, watching the scene.

Bucky on the table is very still for a moment, and then he starts struggling once more, growling, fighting, and the shocks begin again.

“Start over,” Dr. Webbs translates. The shocks continue while the asinine list is read again, in the same careful cadence. Then the shocks stop.

Bucky struggles again. The shocks start. The words start. It’s a system on repeat, and Tony doesn’t need to have Dr. Webbs credentials to know what the point is. When Bucky cooperates, stops resisting, gives them what they want, responds to the words like they’re training him to, the pain will stop.

It’s a terrifying cycle, and Tony finds himself watching the real Bucky instead. His eyes can’t seem to leave himself, trapped on that table.

“He can interact,” Tony murmurs to Dr. Webbs. “None of it’s real but he is. He can mess with it. That’s the point of this.”

“The simulation will only end when he chooses,” she says sadly. “He has to get what he thinks he came for. And then he can try again. When he’s ready.”

Tony doesn’t look at Steve, but he can feel the super soldier next to him, probably moments from breaking the window. It’s reinforced, just in case Bucky lost control. Steve could probably get through with enough effort, and he doesn’t look like he’d spare any.

And then the Bucky on the table goes lax, and stays that way long after the trigger words are done. It takes several moments, but he lets out the most broken, quiet string in response Tony’s ever heard. “готовы соблюдать.”

“Ready to comply,” Dr. Webbs translates softly.

If Tony thought the Bucky on the table was sad, it’s nothing compared to the broken noises the real Bucky is making, the one pressed against a wall, neuro glasses still in places.

Tony turns away. “That’s enough,” he says. “Get those off of him, it’s not worth it, it’s a stupid idea.” He takes a deep, shaking breath. “You don’t need me here anymore.”

“Don’t leave,” Dr. Webbs requests. “Not yet. We don’t know if we’re done.”

“We’re done,” he says.

“That’s Bucky’s decision. Hold right here.”

Steve escorts her into the BARF room, and Tony paces the little observation room endlessly. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn't want to see this, to have to take on anymore. He has his own issues.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. Maybe this is his penance for wanting vengeance so badly. Regardless. He’s the one who said they needed Bucky back. He’s the one who wouldn’t let Steve leave him on ice.

When Dr. Webbs and Steve return, Tony’s standing straight and steady. “Let me talk to him,” he says.

Dr. Webbs looks considering, questioning, but Steve flat-out says “No.”

“I’m the only one who knows how to use BARF. I’m the only user other than Barnes. If he’s giving it another go, he needs to know how to grab hold of the situation.”

Dr. Webbs nods. “He wants to go again,” she says. “I advised against it, for today at least. We got so much, and that was hard on him. But he insists.”

“Let me talk to him,” Tony repeats.

Dr. Webbs is a calculating woman who knows more than most people in a room put together, Tony’s found. “Take Captain Rogers with you,” she says.

Tony wants to protest that, but some things can’t be fought.  _ Compromise _ , he thinks, so he takes a deep breath and nods.

When he gets into the room, he leaves a half dozen feet between him and Bucky, just in case Bucky takes crowding badly. “Hey, Barnes,” he says.

The man looks up at him, long hair hanging over his face, and Tony swallows. “Right,” he says. “Hear you’re giving BARF another go?”

Bucky doesn’t respond.

Tony sighs. “You have to interact,” he says. “That’s the whole point. You can get in their face, whatever. They’re your memories. I know it doesn’t feel like it. Believe me,” Tony says, swallowing, thinking of the dozens of electromagnetic headaches he’s nursed for this machine, the dozens of different outcomes, all the times he’s played with various memories. “But you are in control. Once those glasses go on. You are.”

“Won’t change anything.”

It’s the first words Tony’s heard Bucky say since Siberia, and he does start a little bit. “Won’t change what happened,” he agrees. “But that’s not what therapy is really about, is it?” He sighs. “If you wanna go again, no one’s gonna stop you. Do whatever you need to do. Just remember. You have the power in there. No matter what it feels like.”

Tony doesn’t stick around. Bucky doesn’t need him, doesn’t want him, and frankly, Tony doesn’t want him either. He feels terrible for the guy, isn’t sure how anyone with a soul couldn’t, considering what he’d just seen. But he still sees that hand, that flesh hand, wrapped around Maria Stark’s throat while she calls for her husband. Sees her fear. Sees her die in a way she never, ever could have deserved.

Steve follows behind him slowly, no doubt taking a moment to comfort Bucky. “Why’re you doing this?” He hisses at Tony, no doubt hoping Bucky won’t hear. 

“Because everyone deserves medical care,” Tony says. “And he needs it. And as much as I can’t  _ stand _ the sight of him, as much as it hurts, he’s not an exception. Plus. You all need him. It’s all or nothing in this, Rogers.”

He nods to Dr. Webbs. “He’s as ready as he could be,” he says. “Up to him now.”

It takes Bucky a moment to decide to put the glasses back on, but once the neuroband locks back into place, once its waves can access Bucky’s hippocampus once more, the information is transmitted through the band, the glasses, and the display sensors. The memory begins.

Tony doesn’t watch. He’s seen it, and once was more than enough. Instead, he focuses on Bucky, the real Bucky. Who’s making that low, broken noise again. Tony sighs. They’ve lost him.

“C’mon,” Steve murmurs behind him, and Bucky can’t hear him, can’t know what Steve’s saying, but he seems to come back regardless. “C’mon, Buck.”

Bucky seems to  _ charge _ into it, like the ground beneath him has caught fire or something. “He get triggered?” Tony asks.

Dr. Webbs is watching the whole scene, incredibly thoughtful, only her nearly-shattering grip on the windowsill giving her tension away. “No,” she says. “I don’t think so. At least, not how you think.”

Bucky kills the man reading commands, and then the man shocking his past self. He’s cold and efficient about it, and Tony shivers at the sight.

The men go down easily. Then Bucky rips at the manacles holding himself down, and Tony’s sure it’s more the power of Bucky’s thoughts getting through that than any real strength, considering their lack of reality, but they open.

Tony gives a shaky exhale. “No prizes for guessing what that means, huh?” He murmurs.

“So...that helped? He’ll get better?” Steve asks.

Dr. Webbs purses her lips. “No,” She says. “Years of therapy and constant vigilance and work will help him. There is no single moment that fixes a person, Captain, no magic action. But,” she says, and Tony thinks she’s actually smiling, “There’s always a place to start. And I think we found that today.”


	4. Chapter 4

Tony’s in his workshop when the door opens. “What gives?” He asks, not looking up. “You forget something, Bruce, or just miss me that much?”

Bruce would never not respond, even if it was just to rib Tony back. Tony looks up. “Oh,” he says. “Can I help you?”

Bucky swallows. He’s cradling his metal arm. “Needs a look at,” he says softly. “If you’re up for it.”

Tony gestures to his work bench. “Got a chair here somewhere,” he mutters. He distinctly remembers Rhodey using one, giving the leg braces a break. “Ha.” He digs it out, sets it at a good spot, and gestures again. Bucky takes a seat.

“Well?” Tony asks. “Where’d we go wrong?”

Bucky shrugs. “It...stutters?” He’s asking more than telling, but Tony shrugs and gets his tools. He’s worked with less.

“Gonna open it up,” he warns, popping the necessary panels to get to the internal pieces. He sighs, poking around. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“Why do you care?” Bucky asks.

“Well, I built you this thing. I’m maintaining what I built. Pretty shitty workmanship if it hurts you.”

“But it’s me.”

“Maybe no one’s told you, but I’ve been pretty determined to see you get better, Barnes. Now, hold very still,” Tony instructs, carefully tweezing apart the wires so he can see between and beneath them. Nothing looks particularly wrong, and Tony’s getting worried it’s actually something messed up with the nerve paths, and he’ll have to get Bruce for that. He doesn’t like the squishy bits of people. He has no desire to poke around at Bucky’s nerves.

“The Cryo isn’t what fries my brain, Stark,” Bucky says. “I remember what happened last time we met.”

Tony’s quiet for a moment, poking at the wires. “And yet, here you are, letting me be elbow-deep in your arm,” he says. “King T’Challa can take care of this for you, you know. Rhodey could probably handle it. Bruce would give it a shot. Vision too, maybe. But you came to me.”

“They tell me you’re the best.”

Tony snorts. “Right. Look, I’m...sorry, okay? If I hadn’t...I was out of control. I lost it. My Mom didn’t deserve to die like that, I shouldn’t have had to see it. I should have already known. Lots of things went wrong. You still didn’t deserve…”

Tony trails off and focuses even more intently on the arm, even if his fingers have stopped moving. “I can’t look at you and not be angry. Not see what happened to her, not see my Father’s last moments and try to deal with  _ that _ mess. And then you, there…” Tony swallows. “It makes me angry, Barnes. Makes me  _ furious _ . It fucking hurts.”

“So why help me?”

“Because, despite the best showing I’ve given you, I’m not an irrational moron. I know you were the gun, not the trigger-puller. I get it. And you deserve help. Everyone deserves to be helped, and I’m in a position to do it. The team needs you.”

“The team doesn’t need a guy who can’t keep his own head on straight,” Bucky mumbles.

“Damn. Guess most of us are out, then,” Tony says. “You might have it pretty damn bad right now, but you can be helped, Barnes. You won’t be who you were in the forties ever again. But you’ll feel like you again. Whatever that means. That’s what Dr. Webbs assures me, anyways. Look, Barnes. It’s not my team anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. But I’m sure  there’s a place for you, if you want one. And if you don’t, fine. At least we know we didn’t leave you behind.”

“Why do you care?”

“These Accords are asking a lot of us,” Tony says. “Changing a lot. Some good, some less good. We have to deal with it, whatever your buddy Rogers might like to say about it. It’s not an option, at this point. What is an option is how we react. What voice we bring to the table. I fully intend that voice to be a united front. Whatever that means, these days.”

He goes back to tinkering.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” Bucky says, and Tony’s hands clamp on an internal joint for a moment before he realizes that’s probably a bad idea and let's go.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment. “Look, no offense, but I can’t have this conversation with you. I can’t talk about them with you, and maybe that’s not fair because you knew my dad and you were made to kill them and you have to live with that, but that’s what you have a therapist for and Rogers and all them. I can’t talk to you about them. It just...it can’t happen. Take the sorry as read and let’s let it lie, if you want any help from me.”

“You ever gonna be able to forgive me?” Bucky asks.

“I have no idea,” Tony says honestly. “I don’t know if it’ll ever matter enough for you to care, considering. We probably won’t be around each other that much longer. We’re going to take down Ross, I go one way, you and Rogers another. That’s the way it is, now.” Tony pauses a moment. “But other than that. I don't know. I don’t know if it’ll happen. I don’t know when. I don’t blame you, not really, I’m not an idiot, I’m actually pretty fucking smart. I  _ get _ the reality. But it fucking hurts, and I just can’t be around you.”

“I’m here right now,” Bucky says.

“I’m doing something. I said I would get you an arm. A therapist. Access to BARF. I did what I said I would, and I’ll maintain this arm if no one else will. But right now, maybe always, that’s it.” Tony stares down at the arm with displeasure. “I can’t find what’s fucking wrong with this thing.”

“Wow, that’s weird,” Bucky deadpans, and it takes Tony a second to get it--the guy doesn't have the widest range of expressions, it’s a little hard to tell--but by the time Tony’s figured it out, Bucky’s closed his arm back up, and is gone from the workshop.

“Well, damn,” Tony mutters, and it’s a while before he gets back to work.

 

Bruce pokes his head in. “T’Challa’s called a meeting,” he says. 

“Goody,” Tony says, because as far as he knows, there is only one thing left to discuss. He fiddles with the computer for another moment. “Alright. I’m good. Let’s go.”

Tony’s the last one in again, although this time the seat left for him is halfway up the table, between Rhodey and Bruce. 

“I’ve gathered everything I can,” Natasha says. “Ross is definitely turning enhanced individuals to his side, and using the Accords to cover his dirty work. They are definitely being used on US military operations. They are definitely taking out civilians in their path. Photos, accounts. It’s not enough. But it’s all we have.”

“What’s enough?” Clint asks.

“A full confession,” Rhodey says. “Seriously, taking down people in high places is hard. It’ll take some time.”

“We don’t  _ have _ time,” Clint snarls. “I say we wrap him up ourselves.”

“And escalate this whole thing,” Tony interjects. “Wind up in jail ourselves, probably. We want to take Ross’ power from him, it has to go somewhere else.”

“That’s all well and good,” Sam says. “But  _ we _ can’t go. They’ll imprison us.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going,” Tony says. “Anyone else, it’s up to you. I said it before that I could change the world from inside my cell. I don’t see why now would be any different, if it comes to it.”

T’Challa rises. “I will go with you,” he says. “We will make this Council face reality together. The rest of you, you are welcomed to stay here for the time being. Do not leave unless you intend to leave Wakanda entirely.”

“We leaving now?” Tony asks.

“I see no need to wait.”

“Fair enough. Let me run to the lab.”

“It is better to go unarmed,” T’Challa cautions. “We do not need to be seen as aggressive.”

“Yeah, well, some preparation always needed,” Tony mutters. “I promise it’s not full Iron Man armor.”

“Right,” T’Challa says, clearly amused. “You told me you were done with that. A civilian non-combatant. A consultant, I believe.”

Tony rubs the back of his neck. “Right. Five minutes.”

So Tony runs to the lab, literally tearing open the door, because there’s no time. It’s felt like the world’s worst game of hurry up and wait, always something to be doing but never the thing that most needed doing. And now he has a chance to finish this.

Or at least move on to the next step, he thinks ruefully. It’s always another step.

He gathers up his supplies--another iGauntlet, primed and ready to go. He puts it on, making sure the watch mechanism is locked into place. And then he does the hardest part, rifling around in the drawer to find the nano-injector.

“Man, this is gonna suck,” he murmurs, bringing the injector to his skin and pressing in. He reloads, then does it again, putting a total of ten shots into his body. They barely even bleed, and Tony knows feeling them settle beneath his skin is entirely in his head. He’s done this before, after all, even if the run with Extremis had healed his body from them.

Tony’s pretty sure he’s going back to prison, unless T’Challa is truly impressive at protecting him and feels a need to. He can accept that. What he won’t be is entirely helpless this time.

“I’m ready,” He tells T’Challa, slightly out of breath by the time he makes it back. He blinks at the tall woman standing next to T’Challa. “Who’re you?”

She looks him over dispassionately, like he’s a bug on her shoe, and some part of Tony wants to protest while the other admires that. “Okoye,” she says.

“Alright,” Tony agrees, still a little bemused. “And you’re here.”

“The King goes nowhere without me.”

T’Challa quirks a smile at Tony. “You heard her,” he says. “I may be the Black Panther, but I am not the only warrior of Wakanda. She protects her King.”

Tony shrugs. “Cool.”

They end up in one of T’Challa’s vibranium jets, and Tony thinks hysterically of synthesizing a tiny little chip of the metal, of powering his heart from it, and how Wakanda makes planes out of the stuff. It’s a strange world.

“New York?” Tony asks. “Or Vienna?”

“New York, I think,” T’Challa says. “Perhaps we can stop upstate, if we are quick and quiet enough.”

“Need something?” Tony asks. “At, uh, my place?”

It doesn’t feel like his place. It never has. But he did pay for it.

“I imagine Ross has torn it to pieces,” T’Challa says thoughtfully. “I also imagine you are better at hiding valuables than that.”

“The shield,” Tony realizes. He sighs. “Ross probably didn’t find it. You can grab it. You can return it to him.”

“You don’t wish a part in that?”

“I’ll stay far away,” Tony says darkly. “Let him have it. I’m done babysitting them. They’ll make their choices. They’ll face whatever consequences come.”

“The greatest hurts are between friends. Zemo got that much right.”

“He clearly didn’t think we were that important of friends,” Tony says. “Look, grab the shield. And we’ll clear out fast. Move on.”

 

The Avengers compound is a mess, torn to pieces, like Ross thought Tony hid the secrets to the super soldier serum in the walls or something.

The shield is buried in a lead-lined container, five feet deep, almost on the edge of the woods. The grass has grown over it again.

Tony still knows the spot exactly, and digs with unerring precision. It’s long, tiring work for the three of them, but Ross and his men destroyed most of the tools around, including the little digging machine Tony had used last time.

Finally, Okoye’s shovel hits metal, and they pull the container out.

“How delightfully old fashioned,” T’Challa says, prying open the lid. He doesn’t say the next most obvious bit,  _ how delightfully like a funeral _ , but Tony knows it anyways.

“Anything else you wish for?” T’Challa asks. “This is the time to grab it.”

FRIDAY is off line, the massive infrastructure damage taking her out too. The bots are, fortunately, not here, so Ross didn't get to them. There are suits, buried in the deepest recesses of the building, and Tony made sure long ago that neither Ross nor anyone else could touch those. Still, he goes to them regardless.

He studies them dispassionately. Dead hunks of metal. The only difference between them and the suit blown to pieces in the Siberian snow is that these can have life breathed into them at Tony’s slightest whim.

He lays a hand across an arc reactor, whole and safe.

“I’m good,” he says, turning away from the suit, ignoring it as the arc reactor lights up. So they head into the city, shield taking up an entire seat on the jet.

 

T’Challa sets the jet down along the courtyard, and Okoye peers around. “I don’t like it,” she announces. 

T’Challa snorts. “You like very little, Okoye.”

“I do not like my King putting himself in unnecessary danger.”

“What’s the point of a job if it isn’t challenging?”

She says something back in a language Tony cannot understand, and T’Challa smiles, clearly pleased. He responds.

Tony watches them go back and forth, watches the young king smile. He doesn’t seem to do that enough. Even the few times Tony met him when his father was alive, when the mantle of King had yet to be placed upon him, he hadn’t smiled enough.

“What don’t you like about it?” Tony asks, and he recognizes that he’s several minutes late to the conversation, but he’s been scoping out the area.

Okoye considers him, and looks for a moment like she considers ignoring him. “It is too open,” she says. “Too many chances.”

“We are on a peace mission,” T’Challa argues.

“General Ross isn’t,” Tony murmurs. “Once we’re inside, we should be all set.”

“We are off US soil,” T’Challa says. “He is an arrogant, over-reaching man, but the world is watching here.”

“Nothing would surprise me,” Tony says darkly. “C’mon, you two ready?”

Okoye opens up the hatch, and they clamber out. Tony compulsively touches his wrist, right above where the iGauntlet lays, hoping the little devices he planted into his skin is actually active.

Okoye responds first, and T’Challa is right on her heels. “Trouble,” he hisses to Tony.

Tony’s all ready to make a break for it when people begin to step out around them.

“Ross’ super soldiers,” he says, looking one of them straight in the eye. The man smirks.

“You’re under arrest.”

T’Challa draws himself fully upright, leaving his fighting crouch. “I am a King,” he says. “I have diplomatic immunity, but regardless, we are on neutral soil. Leave us be.”

“You are under arrest.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re people,” Tony says wryly. “And not, you know, robots. All evidence to the contrary.”

Okoye doesn’t seem willing to wait for the super soldiers to attack. She launches herself at one--the one closest to T’Challa, Tony can’t help but noticing, and he wonders briefly what it’s like to be bodyguard for a king who also embodies your people’s most famous warrior, if it changes anything--and the fight seems to begin.

T’Challa is fast, and lethal, even without his suit and claws. The man really does move like a cat, turning a running leap into a roll, super soldier neatly pinned beneath him.

Tony pops open the iGauntlet, and wonders if it’s time to play his hand yet. He turns to the super soldier nearest him and triggers the concussion repulsor. IGauntlets have always been designed as entirely non-lethal options, and it’s not that Tony wants to kill these people, they probably need help almost as much as Bucky Barnes does, but he could use a bit more than knocking them on their ass.

He takes down another one, and then his hand is grabbed from behind, and the iGauntlet is crushed along with what feels like several of his bones. 

“Motherfucker,” Tony swears, and he’s doing his best to focus, to not think about how much he needs his hands, how them working is absolutely crucial to building and flying and pretty much anything else he might desire to do.

First, he has to make sure his head doesn’t get crushed.

He struggles, but he feels like a child in this man’s grasp. A hand is laid across his throat, and he swears he hears Okoye scream in rage and T’Challa shout his name, but then he blacks out.

 

“Wake up, Stark.”

Tony groans. The last thing he wants to do is wake up. It feels like he hasn't slept in a month, and his head is  _ aching _ . He can’t remember the last time he drank like this. He can’t remember drinking like this, for that matter.

“Wake up.” The man sighs. “Douse him.”

Nothing could possibly wake Tony up faster than that. “What do you want?” He asks.

He peers around the room, head aching still even with the lights relatively dim. He’s on his back, looking up at the room and people around him. They’ve stripped him, put him back in a Raft jumpsuit, taken the dented and useless iGauntlet away. “Fucking hell…” He mutters.

There’s four people in the room, three of whom Tony assumes are Ross’ super soldiers. The last, of course, is the man himself.

“Ross.”

“Tony. We missed you.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“No, we did. No one else bullshits quite like you, Tony. Losing you was bad for business.”

Tony looks around balefully. “Looks like your business has been just fine without me.”

Ross laughs. “Have to admit. Business on this end is booming. Government side, less so, but these guys. Well. Do you know how many HYDRA experiments there actually were? Not to mention how many idiots tried to replicate that super soldier serum. Incidents are breaking out now, powers seem to be spreading. It’s a contagion, Tony.”

“You’re not supposed to profit off contagions.”

“Tell that to big pharmacy,” Ross snaps. “This is the American Dream, Stark. Making a buck while protecting the American way of life. By protecting honest, real citizens from freaks on their streets.” Ross smirks. “But hey. At least I have rules, Stark. I make my profit, but I sell to American troops only. So I guess that still puts me a rung above you.”

_ That _ stings, that old, old hurt that Tony has tried to repair a thousand different ways, his biggest mistake that he didn’t know was happening, and Tony does his best to quash it now. Ross wants him to hurt. Ross wants him off-balance and distracted.

“So you are selling them?” Tony asks.

“Sure. Keep some close, to track down more, to be there for any threats that might come up. The rest, there’s a hefty price and they go to the military. Weapons for the troops. Actions get taken, terrorists and despots get wiped off the planet. All Accord sanctioned, all legal. Actually helping the people.”

Tony swallows down his bile. “They’re people, Ross.”

“They’re monsters and they’re weapons. Weapons are meant to be used, Stark, not to look pretty in armories.” He smirks then, and Tony’s always hated that smirk, always hates whatever comes next. “Speaking of weapons…”

“No.”

“Haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

“The answer is still no.”

“Tony, Tony, Tony…” Ross begins, shaking his head, and Tony’s seized with a sudden gripping fear. That tone. It sounds so much like Obadiah at his worst, his most patronizing. Let me take care of you, Tony. I can fix everything. Stupid Tony, fucked up again, it’s all right, it can all be put to rights…

“No,” Tony says.

“Look, Stark,” Ross says. “You have no value to me as a military weapon. You’ve served your point as a PR dummy. At this point, no one cares. Enhanced are subdued. Less people are dying.”

“I think you’d be surprised...how many Middle Eastern nations care, considering what you’ve been doing,” Tony says.

Ross grins like a shark. Tony’s always noticed it, but it’s only all the more evident now. “We all know who really brings a voice to the table, Stark. I don’t need your connections. I don’t need you. I need weapons, Stark. Iron soldiers.”

“Everyone seems to need the same thing,” Tony says. “Funny how no one has them.”

“I have the full weight of the Accords,” Ross says. “And you’re an escaped fugitive who deliberately disobeyed a direct command. Welcome home, Stark. I have all the resources of the Raft at my disposal. And I have had good results here.”

“I’m sure you have, but you’re not the first asshole I’ve met, and you still won’t be getting suits, Ross, nothing can…”

“Dunk him.”

The table suddenly releases, swinging backwards so Tony’s torso is above his head, and it keeps swinging until his head hits water.

Tony tries. He tries to hold his breath, to keep his composure. He’s in the Raft. This is Ross. Ross. Not a cave, not the Ten Rings…

It’s hard to convince oneself to not panic about torture when one is actively being tortured, Tony finds.

He holds on for another few seconds, aware of where he is, aware of what’s going on, but he’s upside down in a basin of frigid water, and the moment it creeps into his nose and throat, he loses control.

_ Weapons. They want weapons and he can’t build them, has to keep saying no, he’ll be dead in a week anyways, what does any of it matter anymore. He has to he has to… _

It takes Tony a moment to realize he’s clear of the water. “Dunk him.”

So Tony’s brought back under, and he’s unprepared, water rushes immediately into his nose. He can’t even thrash about, wonders why that is, just stuck under the water…

He’s clear again. He can breathe, and he takes deep, desperate gulps of air that don’t seem to be reaching his lungs. He knows it’s air, knows he’s no longer submerged, but he still can't get a breath, wonders if they did something to the room, to him.

He comes back slowly. Panic, he realizes distantly, like some separate, long-gone part of his brain is speaking up. It’s a panic attack, he’s panicking after the waterboarding and he can breathe, if he just relaxes enough to do so.

It’s a fight to do so. There’s no one, nothing, to help him keep calm, and he’s fighting a losing battle, trying to convince his body it's safe when he’s anything but.

When Tony sucks in his first deep lungful of air that he can actually feel, Ross smirks at him. “Feeling better?” He asks. “More cooperative?”

Tony’s trying to get his breath back, his vision back in focus, his thoughts in order, so he doesn’t respond right away. There’s not much point, anyways.

Ross leans towards him. “You can always make it stop, Stark. You know how this works. Give me what I want and I’ll give you what you want. A business negotiation, right? Tit-for-tat. Iron soldiers for your life.”

“Hey, Ross,” Tony says. His voice sounds like he gurgled glass, but Ross responds nonetheless. “I think you forgot something.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Ross asks.

“I’m Tony fucking Stark,” Tony grins. “And I have  _ always been _ Iron Man.”

Ross makes a disgusted face. “Dunk him again,” he instructs. “He could use a cool down.”

Tony just has to hold it together a few more minutes. The middle of the Atlantic and upstate New York aren’t exactly neighbors, after all.

Still, the water gets to him. He holds onto the thought, furious tight grip on it.  _ It’s almost over. Almost over _ .

When Ross has them pull him out again, Tony takes deep, shuddering breaths to fill his lungs once more. Then he grins, sharp and feral and freeing in a way, a mask to cover the oncoming panic that they can all see through but terrifies them regardless. “Another thing you forgot. I’m smarter than you, Ross.”

Ross is turning purple, Tony’s somewhat excited to see. He can think of better sights though.

And then he sees it, what’s he’s been longing for since he woke up, since he flexed his wrists just right inside his cuffs. The door blows open, and the Iron Man suit rushes in.

Ross’ eyes light up, apparently not getting it. “You’re giving me a gift, Stark,” he says. “Do you know what this means? I have a suit. I…”

“FRIDAY,” Tony interrupts. “Daddy would really like out of here now.”

“Of course, Boss,” comes from the Iron Man voice modulator. It sounds nothing like FRIDAY, and Tony finds that he can’t wait to hear her actual voice. 

FRIDAY is not an AI for beating around the bush, Tony’s found. She concusses Ross with a single blast, and then looks at the three enhanced soldiers in the room. “You are free from Secretary Ross’ command,” she intones. “If you would like to surrender, speak now.” When they don’t speak up immediately, she concusses them straight through the wall. “They will survive,” she says without an ounce of regret.

“True,” Tony agrees. “Now...out? They’re not going to give us much time. Although...be careful with that laser.”

“When am I ever not careful, Boss?” She asks rhetorically, and begins to slice at the cuffs holding him in place.

Free at least, Tony shifts and groans. “Alright, no time to waste,” he says, wishing he had time for a nap and another panic attack or two. But FRIDAY obediently opens the suit so he can climb inside.

“Knew you’d come for me,” he says.

“Always, Boss.” That’s her voice, his FRIDAY, and Tony allows himself the briefest second of enjoying it before getting down to business.

“Alright. First priority: UN. These guys can be dealt with later.”

“Allow me to highlight the way out.”

“This place is still water-tight, right?” Tony asks, concerned.

“Of course. What do you take me for?”

Tony manages a chuckle. “Someone who loves her boss,” he says with a bit of wonder. “And possibly has little regard towards structural integrity where I’m concerned.”

“The Raft remains watertight.”

“Goody. Think you can get us out and keep it that way?”

“Already rising, boss,” she says. “We’re going out the front door.”

Tony flies through the halls, because walking would just take too long. “Did they grab T’Challa?”

“No records of him in the Raft. Security footage from New York suggests no.”

Tony breathes a sigh of relief. “And the Raft’s security footage?”

“Downloaded.”

“You’re the best, FRIDAY. You should get a raise.”

“You don’t pay me, boss. Now. Out?”

“Out,” Tony confirms, flexing his hands and lifting off as the bay doors open.

Flying’s always been a special feeling. Ever since the first time he took to the air, did the impossible and built himself a way into the sky, it’s been electrifying.

“Right,” he says after a moment, gathering himself. Now is not the time to celebrate being back in a suit. “Plot me a course back to New York.”

“Done.”

Tony starts messing with the feeds. “Anyone there?” He asks.

“Tony?” Rhodey asks incredulously. “You there, man?”

“Here. Inbound in--”

“Twelve minutes,” FRIDAY supplies.

“Twelve minutes.”

“How’d you get out?” 

“I’m Tony fucking Stark,” Tony says flippantly. “Ross can’t hold me.”

“He neutralized?” Clint asks, and Tony starts.

“What are you doing on this line?” Tony demands.

“We’re all here, Tony,” Natasha says. “All of us.”

“Good to hear your voice, Tony,” T’Challa adds.

“Ross is unconscious,” Tony says. “In the Raft. FRIDAY got their security footage. Even if he leaves, we have him.”

“I’ve locked down the Raft, Boss,” FRIDAY interrupts. “Blocking signal to the hanger door wasn’t difficult.”

Tony smiles. “That’s my girl. Ross shouldn’t be going anywhere,” he informs the team.

“Six minutes out, Boss.”

“What’s going on?” Tony demands.

“Ross’ soldiers are attacking us. About a dozen of them. We haven’t been here too long, either,” Sam supplies. “Some of them...These are some weird fucking things, man.”

“Try not to hurt them,” Tony says. “They’re...they need help.”

“Is that the official Accords position?” Scott asks.

“ _ Undue _ force is a pretty widely accepted no-no,” Tony says. “You have an issue, Lang?”

“Just wondering where you stand on this,” he mutters.

T’Challa takes over. “Do what you must to survive, but no more. These people do not deserve to die. Iron Man?”

“Three minutes,” Tony says, pushing the suit a little faster. “Two.”

He gets into range and let's out a whoop. “Rhodey, man, looking good.”

Even behind the face mask, he can tell Rhodey is grinning when he turns to look at him. “You like it?” He says, doing a little loop-de-loop just to show off his flying prowess.

“It’s  _ beautiful _ ,” Tony gushes. “The most beautiful piece of tech I’ve ever seen. Excepting, of course, the Iron Man suit.”

“Tony,” comes Bruce’s dry voice over the comm. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you about your mastabatory relationship to your tech for a while now. No one’s known how to bring it up, though.”

“Not a code green, huh, buddy?” Tony asks while snickering.

“That seems like overkill. Emphasis on kill,” Bruce says.

“The Big Guy can be kinda cuddly when he wants,” Tony argues. “Alright, you hang out wherever you are. Let Papa Tony clean this up.”

Rhodey groans. “Please never refer to yourself as Papa again. You had to make it weird.”

“Bruce is the one who mentioned masturbation!” Tony protests.

“Chatter,” comes over the line, but rather than Steve’s usually bold voice, it’s quiet. Almost unsure.

“Hey, Cap,” Tony says quietly. 

“Tony.”

Tony swoops down at the big guy going against Wanda. He seems almost like her, and she looks like she’d holding her own but not gaining much ground. “Wanda, when I say go, duck,” he says.

“Stark,” she growls.

“I can let you keep struggling for eternity if you’d prefer,” he offers.

She sighs, and he takes it as acquiescence. “One, two, three…go,” he says, and then he lets off a concussive blast. Wanda ducks, and it just misses her.

“Great,” Tony says. “One down, think you can tie him up, Wanda?”

“I got it!” A new voice shouts, and Tony swears. “Hey, Mr. Stark. I saved that earpiece you gave me.”

“I see that,” Tony growls. “Stay back, kid, you hear me? Web ‘em up and stay clear, or so help me God…”

“Can do,” Spider-Man says, flinging himself around on that spider rope. He shoots webbing, tying up Tony’s victim.

“How many?”

“Five,” Rhodey says. “Spider-kid, rope up the ones we got for us. That stuff is good.”

“Thanks!” Peter says brightly. “I made it myself.”

“Less talking, more fighting,” Sam reminds everyone. Redwing whizzes past Tony, and somehow it makes him proud, to see tech he made and rebuilt being used by these guys.

“I count four,” T’Challa says. “I have another one for you, Spider-Man. Okoye would like you to know, Stark, that she expects her own earpiece for the future.”

“Can do,” Tony promises. He turns to watch her fight, and she moves rather like her King does, fast and lethal and undeniably cat-like. An attacker inhumanly strong pushes her so hard she should hit a building, a good way to snap a neck. She rolls, landing in a crouch, and comes up teeth bared and claws out.

Tony looks around the field, watching his...team might not be the right word, not anymore, but it’s not the wrong word, either. Steve seems to be fighting someone as strong as he is, and Bucky is going for someone’s throat with the metal arm a few feet over.

“Arm works?” He asks suddenly.

Bucky grunts, throws his attacker so they land, limply, on the pavement. Tony sincerely hopes they’re alive. He thinks they are, though. He thinks they’re learning. “I’m told you don’t build shitty tech, Stark,” he snaps, like it was a stupid question, and Tony can’t help but smile a bit.

Sam and Rhodey keep passing him in the air, the three of them circling, lending helping hands, making sure stragglers don’t escape. Tony concusses another soldier, one who seems to be able to change their body shape at will.

“Anyone know there were this many enhanced out there?” Sam asks.

“Nope,” Tony says. “Ross guessed, obviously. And he saw an army.”

“And what do you see?” Wanda asks.

“People with extraordinary abilities,” Tony says as evenly as he can. “Abilities that might be dangerous, if given free reign.”

“We are not yours to command.”

“No one is completely free, Wanda,” Rhodey says. “No one has to fight, but no one can be left to hurt other people.”

They’re down to one last opponent, one last enhanced soldier, and Tony’s frankly already leaving it to his teammates and thinking instead how the Accords council should handle this. Payouts and reparations for their negligence, surely. Therapy, and lots of it. He wonders if Dr. Webbs has friends. Her schedule seems to be full for the immediate future.

“Done,” T’Challa says grimly. “Friends, if you would land? We have a UN to meet.”

“Not me,” Clint says immediately.

“No offense, but I’m not going back to jail,” Scott adds.

T’Challa sighs. “Anyone who wishes may leave in the jet if they can do so before the authorities arrive. Otherwise, you will have to present your case.”

Everyone moves fast. Rhodey, Tony, Peter, Vision, Okoye, and T’Challa are left in the end. Bruce smiles. “Big Guy doesn’t like close scrutiny that much,” he says. “I’ll see you soon, Tony.”

Tony eyes him. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Natasha nods. “I support you,” she says. “Once the council settles, tell them. I signed. I’ll sign again, if I need.”

Tony nods and doesn’t speak, because if he does he’s afraid he’ll ask how permanent her support will be, and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t deserve that.

The door begins to close, and Tony thinks he must imagine Sam watching him contemplatively. The guy would never go against Captain America. And he never believed in the Accords anyways.

Tony gives a two-finger salute as the jet takes off.

“No offense, Mr. Stark, but, the UN….?” Peter begins. “I have homework.” 

Tony snorts. “I’m not going to ask you to get near them until we have something in place to protect your identity,” Tony promises. “Sound better?”

“Loads! So...I do okay today?” Peter asks hesitantly.

“You handled yourself admirably,” T’Challa says.

“You’re a good guy to have around,” Rhodey agrees.

“You did good, kid,” Tony says softly. “Take care of yourself, okay? Stay out of trouble. Low profile while this mess is going down. I’m sure plenty of people saw you here today. You need to protect yourself.” Tony takes a deep breath. “Now, skedaddle. We have a world to change and you have algebra.”

Peter grins beneath the mask, morphing it into an odd, twisted shape that Tony makes a mental note to fix as soon as possible, then takes off. They all watch the kid go, red suit getting more and more distant as he swings away.

“Time for a different type of suit,” Tony says, trying to put on a brave face.

In Iron Man, Tony always feels like he can do anything. Out of it, the world is a little harder to change.

Rhodey inhales sharply at Tony’s Raft prison blues, but Tony pastes on a shaky smile. “All the rage this season,” he says. He turns to T’Challa. “What happened?”

“They came for us. They attacked Okoye and I, kept us busy. It seems they wanted you. I am a little hurt they didn’t want me.”

“I’m sure they would’ve come for you in time,” Tony says. “Little harder to steal a king.”

“For what it’s worth, Okoye and I are sorry we could not stop them.” Okoye nods at him, and Tony makes a second mental note to get her that earpiece.

Tony shakes his head. “Don’t be. You did your job, protected your King.” He turns to T’Challa. “And you protected your mission. Getting into that building was more important than me.”

“What’d he do to you, Tony?” Rhodey asks.

“Not much.”

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“Your jumpsuit’s still wet.”

Tony takes a deep, shuddering breath. He hadn’t noticed, to be honest. “Nothing I didn't handle,” Tony corrects. “I’ll keep handling it.”

“A man who wants help for his friends but sees no need for himself--”

“Makes me a hypocrite, I get it,” Tony cuts across T’Challa.

T’Challa raises a placating hand. “Makes him generous with others but too hard on himself,” he corrects. “You don’t need to be so hard on yourself.”

Rhodey lightly brushes Tony’s shoulder. “Listen to the man,” he says. “He’s a king. He knows what’s up.”

T’Challa smiles. “I could make it an order, if you wish.”

“I think that only works for citizens of Wakanda.”

“We could try it.”

Tony shakes his head. “Can I borrow a phone? Ross seems to have stolen the one that...I borrowed from you before, so I’m fresh out.”

“What do you need a phone for?” Rhodey says, handing over his.

“Oh good, FRIDAY’s already been all over your tech,” Tony says absently, flipping through menus. “Oh, you know. FRIDAY to contact, incriminating evidence to download, reporters to contact. A day’s work.”

“Who’re we contacting?” Rhodey asks.

“Christine Everhart,” Tony says. “If there was a reporter I trust with a story gonna go gangbusters and ruin the lives of people who deserve to have their lives ruined...that would be her.” He looks at T’Challa. “Way I see it, we want this story out there. Every shred of evidence we have, big expose. American Secretary of State abusing Accords power. Secret prisons. The works. Let the Council try to ignore that.”

“I agree,” T’Challa says smoothly. “Now, make your call.”

“Emails are more my style,” Tony says. “Christine is great, brilliant, gets shit done. She also tends to make me feel about six inches tall. So. Email.”

He fires it off, linking pages and pages of information, videos, sound bites, everything he has. Some part of him gets a sick satisfaction of putting Ross’ ass to the fire.

“Okay,” he says, handing Rhodey his phone back. “Time to face the music.”

“Time to change the world,” T’Challa says, and Tony likes that one better.

 

When they stumble out of the UN eight hours later--or eight days, Tony’s honestly not sure, it feels like an eternity of being watched when he’s already pretty damn twitchy--Tony just wants a nap.

Instead, he gets the biggest cup of coffee he can and makes a phone call.

Pepper picks up on the third ring. “Pepper Potts.”

“Pepper, it’s me,” he says quietly in the back of the cafe, pressing the phone he had some runner pick him up a little closer to his face.

She inhales sharply. “Tony? Tony, it’s all over the news, you...the UN...Ross, the Accords...what Ross did to you.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. He closes his eyes for the briefest moments. “I bet it is. And I bet it’s a mess, huh?”

“You have no idea,” she says dryly.

“I’m beginning to,” he says. “I just...it’s a little late, but here’s my heads-up. This isn’t going away. The Accords, they’re needed, Pep, Pepper, we’re taking them all the way, taking Ross down and building the Council, making this work, and it isn’t going to be an overnight news cycle thing.”

“It’s never is with you anymore, is it,” she says, and some part of her sounds almost amused.

She wouldn’t have sounded that way six months ago, Tony knows. “You’re doing better,” he notes.

She hesitates. “Much,” she acknowledges. “Tony, it’ll never be easy, to know what you do. To yourself, mostly. But a little distance...I  _ want _ to help. I don’t want you to ever think it’s because there’s something wrong with you.”

“I know, Pep,” Tony says. “There are a lot of things wrong with me, God knows, hundreds, thousands. But you’re one of, like, two people who saw every last one and didn’t hate me for it. You didn’t leave me for that.”

“No,” she says softly. “I didn’t.”

“We’re still friends, right?” He checks.

“Always,” she says, and Tony hopes he imagines the tears. She hates crying. “Tony, we might not see each other every day. We might not have been right for each other...like that. But we’re friends first and always.”

“Good,” Tony says. He closes his eyes and lets them stay that way, imagines her there and present, the way she sometimes would scratch the back of his scalp. “Because I’m needy, you know that, and I’m going to need a lot of friends right now.”

“What’re you doing this time, Tony?” She asks, and he knows he doesn’t imagine the layer of fondness, the fondness that got so choked by frustration in their relationship.

“Changing the world,” he says. “And you know, I could always use a brilliant redhead by my side.”

“What do you need me to do?” She asks.

“First off, protect the company. That’s your job. I gave it to you for a reason, because you can do it better than anyone else,” he says. “Keep Stark Industries alive. No matter what I do to my name, or anything else, keep Stark Industries doing what it’s doing. It’s doing good, for once.” He swallows. “For what it’s worth. My name might be on the up.”

“And second?”

“I might need a lawyer,” he admits. “Or three.”

“Called them already.”

“You’re the best, Pep.”

“And after that?”

Tony swallows hard. “Nothing. I--you’ve already done it.”

“Oh, Tony,” she says, fondly. “Are you going to be staying in New York?”

“Probably,” he says. “Assuming they don’t chuck me back in prison. They shouldn’t. They might be giving us immunity for things that happened under Ross. Might.”

“Will,” she says fiercely, and Tony is instantly reminded on why he loves her. “And I’ll be in New York. When I can be.”

“Pepper--”

“Friends are there for friends,” she says firmly. “Now. Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

He smiles. “That’ll be all, Ms. Potts.” He waits just a beat. “Thanks, Pep.”

“Always, Tony,” she says softly, and then hangs up.

Tony holds the phone close to his chest for a minute, like it’s a tangible, physical link directly to her, and sighs.

Yeah. He thinks they’ll be okay.

 

Bruce finds him next. Tony doesn’t ask how he got back into the country, doesn’t want to know, but imagines Bruce is resourceful about that type of thing.

“I’m off,” he says.

“Brucie, you just got here,” Tony complains.

“For real, Tony, I’m leaving,” Bruce says. “I’m not an Avenger. I’m not a hero. I don’t...save people. I have the Hulk inside me and, for all that he sometimes has good intentions, he’s destructive. People die at his hands.”

“And you hate it,” Tony adds.

“What?”

“You hate using the Hulk. That’s the important part.”

“The selfish part, maybe.”

“The important part,” Tony corrects. “You make the call, Bruce.” He hesitates. “Look, I’m not trying to be a jackass here, but considering the current climate...you gonna sign?”

“Forward me a copy,” Bruce says. “I’ll sign. I don’t fight. If...if aliens invade, shoot me a call, Tony. But short of that, I’m not an Avenger.”

“You gonna give me a forwarding address, big guy?”

Bruce smiles. “I’m leaving with Doctors Without Borders,” Bruce says. “Ross is gone. I’m...I’m trusting you, Tony, that no one else is going to come after me. That I can do what makes me feel...good. Useful. Without getting hunted down.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Tony says. “Take care of you.”

“Here’s my new phone number,” Bruce says. “Stark Industries Sat phone. Call if you need me. Or want me. I’ll check in.”

Tony thinks his smile might split his face open. It’s not the most familiar feeling, lately. “Godspeed,” Tony says. “Oh, and Bruce?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t speak for the Avengers,” he says, “And how they feel about status in their little club. But you’ll always be a hero to me. You’ve saved lives. And you’re gonna keep doing it.”

Bruce smiles, all soft and touched. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Let me know what SI can contribute to the cause. I’ll let Pepper know and it’ll actually get handled.”

Bruce keeps smiling. “Goodbye, Tony,” he says. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Yeah, well, New York’s always here. Or wherever I am. I’ll be traveling. And SI’s always looking for brilliant scientists. So don’t forget that.”

“I’ll call,” Bruce promises, and with only a few awkward looks between them--neither of them are any good at goodbyes, neither of them have practiced them properly enough--Bruce walks out.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a loss. Just an extension, Tony thinks. Bruce is still there, just a little further away.

 

“Your Majesty,” Tony says quietly, standing next to T’Challa in the halls of the UN.

T’Challa raises an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten our friendship so quickly, Tony?”

“Never,” Tony says. “But this is official business.”

“That I conduct with my friend. Now. To work.”

“They’ll be ready for us soon.”

T’Challa seems as impatient as Tony, absolutely coiling with unused energy, ready to run, Tony thinks, and he can never quite not see the big cat in T’Challa, even when he’s showing the King instead.

“How goes you?” T’Challa asks.

“Swell,” Tony says. “Pepper and the lawyers came through. Charges officially dropped. The Avengers and mine. Now we just have to get them officially reinstated.”

“And then a final draft, and then get them to sign it,” T’Challa says. “Yes, the hardest part remains in front of us. And yet that wasn’t what I was discussing.”

“And what were we discussing?”

“You,” T’Challa says. “Your life, Tony.”

Tony exhales heavily. “We’re busy, T’Challa. Changing the world.”

“The world needs you in it. Have you thought of our conversation after you returned from captivity?” He looks at Tony calculatingly. “You found Dr. Webbs for Barnes. You recommend Captain Rogers find someone to talk to on his own behalf--”

“Does everyone know that?” Tony complains.

T’Challa ignores him. “Don’t you think you’re entitled to the same care? After everything.”

Tony sighs. “I’m...looking into it,” he admits. “It’s hard, to know who to trust. Who’ll actually be helpful and who’s a waste of time, who’s only going to make me worse.”

“But?” T’Challa asks.

Tony shrugs. “I’ve narrowed my list. When I have time, I’ll try.”

“Make time,” advises T’Challa. “The work will get done. But we need you to be okay.”

Tony looks up at him and manages a small smile. “You’ve got the wise King thing down, you know that?”

“Well, I had a good teacher,” T’Challa says, and it almost looks like it doesn’t hurt to discuss his Father. “I’m trying.”

“You’re a good King,” Tony says. “You’re protecting your people, championing these Accords. Protecting the world. Standing up even when it’s hard. That’s...Kingly, right?”

T’Challa smirks. “I hope so,” he says. “And I cannot do it alone. No one can.”

Someone calls their names. “They’re ready,” T’Challa says. He reaches over and briefly squeezes Tony’s forearm. “Time to change the world.”

 

The Accords are shaping up. From the first draft, through all the brutal changes Tony and T’Challa put through it, through suggestions of world leaders and superheroes who actually would deign to contribute, they’ve made a functioning document. Something Tony can live with, something he can be almost proud of.

It’s not done. It’s not ratified. The Council isn’t secure. And then there’s the signing process, which Tony knows will be brutal.

But there’s a more immediate need he needs to fill, first.

Rhodey’s been staying at the Tower with him, there on the days where Tony makes it home. He hasn’t said it yet, but Tony knows he’s fed up. There’s only so many calls for War Machine. The Avengers haven’t actually returned yet, and no one knows if they will, so Rhodey can’t train with them. In the military, Rhodey was constantly busy. Here, he’s waiting for a call that rarely comes.

Tony remembers the days where he selfishly would have done anything to have Rhodey with him all the time. Out of war zones. Facing the fact that his best friend, his first, his only, going into combat zones wasn’t a distant threat but an immediate event had been the hardest part about graduation. Tony wanted to keep Rhodey on a shelf, safe, his, forever.

Rhodey needs freedom. Even if he’s not flying planes, commanding troops, he needs room to stretch his wings, take action.

So Tony waits until they’re at dinner, eating what Rhodey cooked--and Tony’s glad the kitchen re-design went well, that it really is handicap accessible now even if Tony is too busy at the UN to oversee the build himself--when Tony brings it up.

“The Council is looking for a liaison,” Tony says.

Rhodey looks up from his spaghetti. “Yeah? Do you get a title for that one?”

“Rhodey, I’m a little busy for that,” he says. “I’m not on the Council. I can’t be. I’m making the Council. Brow-beating it, is more like it, right now,” he says ruefully. “I’m not an Avenger anyways, not really. They’re looking for someone else. I suggested you.”

“Me?” Rhodey says, setting his fork down.

“First name that came to mind. You.”

“Why?” Rhodey asks suspiciously. 

“Why? Because you’re a fucking Colonel and good at your job. You’re an Avenger, Rhodey. You are War Machine. You’re good with people and making people see sense, and you make shit happen. No one can wrangle the Council and the Avengers better than you.”

“So, this isn’t about…” Rhodey asks after a moment, gesturing to his wheelchair.

“Sourpuss, you’re still fucking War Machine. Nothing is going to keep you out of the sky. Not your spine. And not this new position. You’re still War Machine, and no one and nothing will take that away,” Tony tries, and it’s the right thing to say, the right outpouring of honesty. Because yes, it partially is because of Rhodey’s legs, but in a way it would be hard for him to understand. Rhodey’s bored. He’s not military anymore and his life has changed. There’s no way around that. But he’ll still kick ass at this. More than anyone else.

Rhodey pauses another moment. “Think they’ll listen to a guy sometimes in a chair?” He asks.

Tony beams. “Think you’ll kick their asses around until they get the picture, if they don’t,” he says. “Is that a yes? Because they kinda want to know by Monday.”

Rhodey flings a piece of spaghetti at Tony's head. “It’s a yes,” he agrees. 

“You’re gonna have to travel,” Tony warns. “Avengers to wrangle, world leaders to convince. It’s the show circuit, my friend.”

“You’ll be there with me?”

“As always,” Tony says. “Ready to do this?”

Rhodey grins at him. “Born ready,” he says, and Tony grins back.

 

**One Year Later**

Tony walks into the penthouse after another exhausting day. He throws his tie as far away from himself as he can physically manage, watching the silk flutter to the ground and groaning.

He hates Thursdays.

Every day is hard right now. Every day is another argument about terms or another superhero debating signing or not, another four hour conference with Rhodey about how dumb superheroes can be sometimes. Every day is a world leader panicking over what the Accords do or don’t mean.

Some days are hunting down legitimate Enhanced, some of whom are the remnants of Ross’ legion, some of whom are just turning up now. Some of them will never sign. Some of them just need some guidance, some explanations, a safe place to be.

Rhodey’s been really, really good at his job. Just like Tony knew he would be. He handles those situations, those kids with powers they can’t control and no idea what to say, how to enter this world and handle their place in it, like it’s easy. Like he’s been doing it forever.

Rhodey’s also been wrangling the former Avengers, which takes up a lot of his time. Last Tony heard, they were back in the States. Maybe even back upstate. He’s been resisting checking, although FRIDAY is still installed at the compound and would know in a second.

Natasha signed. Bruce faxed his signed copy. Vision’s signed. Even Peter’s signed, and Tony gets a headache just thinking of all the work he did to protect a superhero’s right to a secret identity, not Peter but a scratchy  _ Spider-Man  _ down on paper, it’s there in ink, official, and it works. 

Rhodey’s job is to convince the rest. Or not. They can retire, Tony doesn’t care anymore. If Steve and his ilk want to betray the people’s trust and break the law, then Tony’s given up. He did his part. If they sign and take up the mantel again, he’ll be happy for them, ecstatic to know they’re out there. He still trusts them with the world, he thinks. He’s just done walking two steps behind them, cleaning up their messes.

Thursdays are particularly bad, though. Because Thursdays don’t start in his office or at the UN or at any of the one hundred twenty-six global sites he’s found himself at recently. They start at an office in the village.

It’s an unassuming place, a bit out of Tony’s way. Colossally so, really, but Tony would have gone back to LA or to London or Cairo or Tokyo for this. For the feeling that his therapist is the right one. Really helping him.

Thursday mornings are valuable but hard. Draining, really, some weeks. Tony has decades worth of issues, maybe starting back at four years old. Maybe earlier, really, who knows. And he’s been dealing and not dealing to varying degrees for that entire time.

He pays her really, really well, but somehow he doesn’t think that Dr. Franks is in it for the money. She’s too genuinely invested in the outcome for that.

Rhodey says he’s proud of him. When he has to beg off an important international meeting with T’Challa, explaining shame-faced where he’s gone, T’Challa tells him he’s doing the right thing, the strong thing. 

Still, this morning he talked about the Accords for two hours. He’s talked about aliens and Afghanistan, about his parents and their death and what it means to find out he was wrong about that for two decades. He’s talked about his Mom and starting MIT so young, about his father’s impossible expectations, about the slap in the face of being called his greatest creation. He’s talked about almost dying, again and again. He’s talked about his mistakes and the people he’s hurt, whether he can ever forgive himself, the blood still on his hands.

But today, he talked about the Accords. About why he believes so strongly and how it feels for his supposed friends to blow them off like they’re above them. About where he’s left now. And it’s good, it’s what he’s known he needs for ages now, but it leaves Tony bone-weary and feeling more than a little empty inside, to talk about himself like this.

So after that less than than thrilling therapy appointment, Tony spent all day at the UN, soothing feathers, arguing for his amendments. Superheroes deserve the right to say yes or no. They should have to tell a sovereign power before entering, work with local authorities, give the people the knowledge and security that it’s not just the superheroes running right over them. If that should prove impossible, it should get thrown to the Council to decide. Superheroes are people. They deserve their secret identities. They deserve Trials and hearings if they mess up, they deserve some level of good Samaritan protection if their actions are in a sanctioned area, and they deserve humane prison treatment, should they be acting outside the law.

The Council has to meet, to keep power. To do what it has promised.

There are people who still want stronger measures, despite what they saw Ross do. There are people who want every last one of them in the Raft, or on a military leash. There are people who don’t think they should get to say no. People who believe what Ross did, who see them as no more than out of control weapons, rather than out of control people. Good Samaritans who don’t know where to draw the lines.

Tony will fight every last one of them. He will work himself to the bone, to sway opinion, to make the world see that superheroes are going to fix their mistakes, to be the people the world needs them to be.

He’s been working for fourteen hours, up for almost twenty, when he gets back to the apartment. Rhodey’s gone, off to Vienna, Tony thinks hazily, although he can’t quite remember why.

Tony’s not unobservant, even as tired as he is. On the contrary, his therapist calls him hyper-vigilant. So Tony sees the upset in his apartment immediately.

That goddamn little phone on the table. The ancient flip phone Steve thought was such a good idea to mail him.

Tony nearly panics. He can’t understand how it even got here. He left it at the very back of a drawer in the Avengers facility upstate. He never took it out, he hasn’t seen it in almost a year and a half. It shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be anywhere, really, it should be a forgotten memory.

There’s a note, too, Tony realizes. He creeps closer, slowly, unsure, then picks up the paper.

It’s not the same note as before, Tony’s relieved to see, but then again he did burn that one. Steve didn’t try to re-write it or anything as insulting as that.

It’s not filled with apologies that hurt more than they heal, that ring hollow over and over and over again, and Tony’s glad for it, because otherwise, he would probably rip it to shreds, put the pieces in the garbage disposal, and talk to his therapist about his tendencies towards overreaction next week. Instead, the note is two simple lines.

_ If you’re ready, we’re ready to listen. _

_ Come home _ .

Tony would recognize Steve’s handwriting anywhere, considering the man’s always preferred to hand-write everything, considering it’s a distinctive, old scrawl.

He squeezes the paper between his fingers, crinkling the edges before forcefully relaxing, breathing deeply.

It’s a step up, Tony thinks. It doesn’t make his blood boil with every word, doesn’t feel like a slap in the face. 

It feels redundant, almost, because it’s Rhodey’s job to liaise between superhero groups and the UN, and Tony might try to keep out of Avengers business, but he knows Rhodey’s talked to them, in an official capacity. They don’t need him to explain the Accords. They don’t need him to lay out the rules for them.

But the invitation remains. The invitation to come, to talk. To be listened to.

More than anything else, it feels like an olive branch. Steve’s second, Tony thinks distantly, his second attempt to extend a hand out to Tony.

Tony sets the note down, then the phone, sliding them to the center of the table, out of the way. Then he goes to the kitchen, hoping for some dinner to make up for the fact that he hasn’t eaten since a power bar around eleven yesterday.

He looks out the window as he goes. It’s well before dawn still.

Maybe in the morning, in the light of day when decent people are up and moving, Tony will look at the note again, read it once more, decide if he’s ready for this. And maybe then, he’ll make a call.


End file.
